A Wayward Wizard in Westeros
by Zenith Starwalker
Summary: What happens when you take a dimensionally displaced Wizard Prince and shunt him into the world of Ice and Fire? Bloodshed, Magic, and a liberal amount of Explosions. A crossover/sequel from my main story... because I can.
1. A Wayward Wizard in Westeros

A Wayward Wizard in Westeros

A/N: (In my impeccable Mushu impression) **I LIIIVE!** I'd explain to you what's taken me so long to put out anything, but I figured I'd just post an arbitrary pseudo-crossover instead. I will get to posting the next chapter to Destiny's Call eventually, but I needed something on the side to get my coagulated creative juices flowing again. To those of you disappointed, look on the bright side. At least I'm not half as awful as GRRM when it comes to the inter-publishing break. I've read the ASOIAF series and watched the GOT show, and I liked both, so I'll be doing something of a blend with them involving my character from Destiny's Call, though with a twist that I haven't seen done often. It takes place well after the main story, but I'll keep it relatively spoiler free. Enjoy! (Chapter completed and reedited on 10/23/16. Hope you all had a Happy Fallout day!)

Destiny was a fickle thing. Even after all I had done, all I had _endured_ because of its wicked whims… it just would not cut me a break. _Me_ , the man who had sacrificed so much, willingly or otherwise, for his newly adopted world, friends, and family in the struggle against the Great Dissonance that threatened to bathe the entire world in an all-consuming nothingness. Such an apocalypse had been cancelled, but it came at a considerable cost… in property, innocence, and life. I still suffered from the odd restless nights and chronic dreams about some of the things I had seen, _the things I had done_ to keep those I loved safe, that even Luna for all her immense, well honed skill in Oneirokinesis could not fully shield me from.

The burden got a little easier to bear over the first few years, during which my loved ones aided me _tremendously_. Before then, I had a strict policy on opening up and leaving myself emotionally vulnerable to others, but bit by bit they chipped away at my stubborn resolve, to my benefit. I still retained that policy when it came to strangers, but I wasn't so distant anymore. My state of mind was also helped in that I kept busy, sharing the stressful workload of Sovereignty alongside the Princesses (despite how amply I hated politics with a fiery passion), training in the yard and making the guardsmen, both veterans and recruits, feel wholly inadequate, scrupulously introducing new technologies and policies into circulation that brought the country out of that strange area that bordered a mixture of Medieval, Victorian, and Modern culture and tech levels. I even assisted on routine patrols (much to the awed amazement of the men and women I accompanied) throughout the countryside, taking stock of our fighting force's recovering strength after a series of devastating conflicts safeguarding the world from that unspeakable force of Evil.

Arcania was my home now. God, _years_ had passed since I awoke in that fantastical land, but it still set me to profound contemplation whenever I told myself that. Even when looking out upon the frankly stunning vistas this planet had to offer (the ones that weren't ravaged, that is), I could still hardly accept it as truth. It was a fact, regardless of my feelings on the matter, but it was true, it was my new home, in all sense of the word. To think, I would one day live more years on that earth than the one I was born in, and there were days that I didn't know whether it scared me or reassured me. Whatever the case, I had set down roots here… and they had grown very deep indeed.

But, regarding the circumstances that led up to my present situation; I was returning from one such combat patrol of the interior with some of the newer guardsmen and women of the relatively nascent A.D.F (Arcanian Defense Force), fresh from a culling of a band of nationless pirates that were harassing our southeast coasts near Baltimære. The filthy brigands had exceeded their already illegal boundaries and encroached upon our sovereign waters and territory to set up a permanent smuggling outpost that they mistakenly thought was cleverly hidden. In the dead of night, we stormed their ramshackle compound when we were sure the lion's share of the pirates were ashore. The fighting was fierce, but short, given that we had the element of surprise, vastly unrivalled equipment, and of course, myself on hand. Our airborne squads set alight the scallywags' anchored vessel using an old, but favored Valkyrian tactic of infusing clouds with flammable liquids and literally setting fire to the rain as they drenched their enemies in flame. The vessel had burnt to the waterline before we were finished putting the ambushed pirates on land to the sword.

Having learned some hard lessons in the past, no quarter was offered to the pirate scum (Though having spent time as a privateer once, I knew that mercy was never something a pirate should ever count on receiving). This policy was once frowned upon by my country people… but that was before the Dissonance War. A lot of the pirates put up a determined yet desperate fight, but there was no contest really. In the aftermath there were eight of ours with minor injuries, but elsewise, none of the three dozen soldiers who had accompanied me were worse for wear (Whereas there were seven dozen dead pirates who could not say the same). I had used the blooding as a sort of training exercise to prepare the future defenders of the nation, teach them to conquer those inner doubts that triggered the wobbly knees that green soldiers with good sense always had before entering a serious tussle.

To someone of my nature and past deeds, it would seem to others almost a waste of time that could be better spent elsewhere, but I was not so pretentious. Just because I was their Prince did not make me their inherent superior outside the chain of command. These were my people now, and I did little things like this to remind them of that. Due to many of my controversial actions before and during the War (not that the sheltered people of Arcania would truly understand why I committed the things I did), I wasn't up there with Cel, Loony, or even Candy in terms of public veneration. But with the reorganized and restructured Defense Forces? I was practically their newfangled patron saint. In some circles I was praised as somewhat of a prodigal commander on the battlefield, though considering I did nothing that hadn't been done before in my birth world, I felt unworthy of those accolades. Besides, the real credit belonged to my superb subordinates.

A heavily contributing factor to that shared success lay with the spontaneous tattoos that every Arcanian got when they had that life changing epiphany that all but always happened before the transition into maturity. Of course, when fate essentially dictates what defines what you are and what you will do with a duo of colorful brands superimposed on your skin, there is little point in arguing it (A fact that only added to my love-hate relationship with Mana Marks). I was only partially excluded from this rule. I say I got lucky, in the sense that I only received one of those stamps on the side of my shoulder. The other was left blank, perhaps purposely. It made for a hell of a banner though, which was affectionately named the Star-crossed Horseshoe, even though in actuality it was an Omega symbol and I despised it being recognized as anything else (Which is probably why it stuck). That 'Horseshoe' made the difference though, and was second only to the Princesses themselves as a rallying symbol. I had forged a legend for myself. One wrought in blood, flame, and magic.

But getting back to my current predicament, one minute I was about to cross the chamber threshold after climbing the stairs of the Solar Tower to personally report to the Regent of the Sun, maybe celebrate another victory over the petty forces of crime (Not that Cel needed an excuse to drag me to her boudoir and ravenously divest me of my apparel). The next? I was in a snow covered clearing in some boreal forest biome, a light sprinkling of white flakes drifting down from the mid-morning sky to land on the ground. I blinked, nonplussed, and searched my memory banks for a clue as to what caused my… _unexpected relocation_.

I never once casted a spell that was unintentional (no matter how I'd like to tell myself otherwise at times), so I ruled out accidental magic automatically. That left any number of supercharged trap spells sown into the stone floor that would send a person on a one-way trip to an assigned destination. I admit, I used quite a few of those myself in the ongoing, legendary prank war Celestia, Luna, and myself were forever embroiled in. But the locations they would mischievously spirit me off to were never this… _remote_ … or nippy for that matter. Usually they would be places I wouldn't normally go to, like a burlesque theater or a birthday celebration for some uppity noble's spoiled brat for example.

Pulling a mental blank save for an alarming last second recall of facing the briefest flash of my reflection, my instincts from years spent in the field involuntarily kicked in. I stretched out with my senses, both physical and metaphysical, and made note of _everything_. Every species of tree, every scent on the wind, every birdsong twittering through the air, any telltale signs of where I could be. I cross referenced those signs with all that I knew of my world, aspiring to mark my location on my mental map and set about getting home. To my dismay, the preliminary and postliminary results each came in as resoundingly inconclusive. My body stiffened and my jaw locked tight, which was fortunate or I would have ground my teeth into powder. I was not one for self delusions of false reassurance in the face of overwhelming evidence.

I was lost in a strange land… _again_.

There was only one surefire explanation for this predicament, and that was _The Mirror_. Whatever it was; a mystical portal that operated outside of what we deemed conventional magic, an insidious eldritch toy that had a perverse fixation on me, or just a regular mirror that misdirected all as to its mysterious purpose, it had became a recurring theme in my life. The modus operandi of the confounding looking glass was that it brought itself to our attention whenever I was 'needed' somewhere, which was always another world that I'd often recognize from when I was a normal guy with normal problems. Sometimes its reflective surface would become wavy and show my destination like some holographic view screen, other times it would keep it a secret while projecting itself into dreams with foreboding omens. It even pulled that last trick on Luna herself once! Though that was a different story. I would oblige the mirror, often reluctantly, and the only way I could return was by meeting some unknown, overarching objective before I was given an exit. Which I assumed was the case here. The sole plus to this 'duty' was that virtually no time would pass back home between my _trips_ ; elsewise I'd never go.

This however, was the first time it had kidnapped me and spirited me away though. Knowing that it could do that was _highly discomforting_ , to say the least. But I couldn't let my growing aggravation with the Cosmic Mirror get in the way of my mission oriented habits. And so with that in mind, I refocused and redoubled my efforts into scanning every last detail anent this world that I could with my higher senses.

There was magic native in this world, a lot like it was with my own, but it felt... on the verge of sleep, for lack of a suitable word, like it was waiting for some kind of specific event to reawaken it to its full glory once more. I closed my eyes and prepared a cursory glance into the world's leyline network that was typical of all magical planets. When they opened again, they were glowing with subdued power, and what I saw was... what I regarded as a sui generis thaumaturgical ecosystem. Magic encompassed this planet so tautly, like a balled up tapestry of magical might, so much so that individual 'strands' were hard to make out. But with that tautness came an immediate responsiveness to everything that affected them. Already I could tell that my arrival here had sent vibrations tumbling through those leylines, in the same manner that a thrown pebble disturbs a pond… only instead of sending out gentle ripples, it made _tidal waves_. It wasn't broadcasting my presence like an LED billboard, per se, since it would be a monstrous challenge for anybody or anything with lesser command of magic to pinpoint the 'epicenter' of the disturbance, but anyone else paying attention to these things like I was would know something was up.

Even though I had never seen this acute an instance of this degree of thaumaturgical compression myself in some time, it wasn't overly surprising to me. If the world's overall magic was indeed in a state of nigh rest (with a few prominent exceptions that were sipping at the incredible wellspring of nearly untapped power to be harnessed), then it would accumulate overtime until the earth, water, and air was metaphysically saturated with it. I did notice that a vast majority of the available leyline energy nearby was gravitating towards the northeast of my position in a slow, steady, implacable movement, much like a river's stream... if that river was made of magic, hundreds of miles wide… and being unwaveringly consumed for some purpose that yet evaded my understanding. There was a smaller, subtler flow heading far to the Southwest that smelled _naval blue_ somehow, but I paid it no mind at the time. Then there was a patch to the direct north that I couldn't draw a bead on without directly focusing on it with a scrying spell, and those could be detected if I wasn't careful, so I held off on that until I had a stronger idea of the lay of the land.

Based on the shifting 'scent' of magic that marked organized activity as my mind's eye spun the globe, this world was definitely inhabited and dominated by humans. But how could that be with so much unused magic sousing their planet? Unless these people had no affinity for harnessing that magic, the leylines shouldn't have been doing such an astounding impression of a rolled up Bayeux tapestry that was fading in its hues. Or had it become a forgotten art throughout the ages? The possibilities were numerous, and yielded more questions than answers. The magic was still being drawn upon though, if those myriad flows were any indication, but they were so _rare_ , the planet could easily support thousands upon thousands more. Even the passive uses of it were few and far between! My brow furrowed increasingly as I 'upped' the resolution in my mind's eye, desiring to know where in the hell I was that was so negligent to the ultimate natural force accessible to men. Blurry shapes gradually joined into discernible features like a pencil sketched picture, and I was both stupefied and riveted by the results.

I stifled a sharp intake of air as I figured out just where I was. You see, one of the many unique benefits of my _wizard eyes_ was that I could use them to discern the outline of the land and living things that the leylines' magic passed through and permeated but without physically suffusing into everything all across the board (with some notable exceptions, especially in the approximate region), which was one of the few facets that made it distinct from my own world's ever present magic, otherwise I would have the complete topography of the planetary landscape too.

In the timeframe of a scant moment of sharpening the image presented to my 'third eye', I could tell that I was somewhere on the northwestern end of a vaguely boomerang shaped island within boating distance from the mainland shore that was maybe over a hundred miles across at its widest point and roughly over fifty miles across from north to south, populated heavily with gnarled oaks, tall pines, flowering thornbushes, moss covered grey rock, and steep hills with fish filled streams where ursine creatures could catch their next meal in their jaws, which was likely a large reason why it was named Bear Island, which itself was only a small piece of the North.

This was Westeros… _bloody, kriffing Westeros_. Off all the manifold destinations the looking glass could send me to, it picked the one place that combined everything I _hated_ about the backstabbing, self serving political antics of court intrigue along with the 'might makes right' patriarchal attitude that justified murder, rapine, rape, the pungent stench of ignorance that every medieval level society had no shortage of, and the utter brutality and filth associated with the system of human slavery on the continent next door… the uninspiringly named Essos, was it? Whatever overall objective the mirror wished for me to accomplish here, I would be busy for a _long, freakin' time_ dismantling everything that was just plain _wrong_ with this world and remaking it into something mildly presentable at the family dinner table. I really hoped that wasn't the basis for me being brought here. Elsewise I would have to steep my hands in enough guts to choke an _Exogorth_.

' _Well… complaining about the onerous task ahead of me never hastened my triumphant return to my loved ones_ ' I idly reflected to myself as I lazily yet longingly twisted at the gunmetal grey band on my ring finger, the pads on my thumb and index brushing over the multicolored gemstones studded onto the metal ring, causing them to glow faintly before dimming down.

The memories enclosed inside gave me the strength to forge onwards.

Baby steps first, find the closest locals and make some inquires to better establish a time period. The seasons were all outta whack here, lasting years for whatever inherently magical reason that I was too mentally enervated to seriously look into or care about, so they were unreliable indicators for the year. Speaking of, the light snows here on Bear Island could mean one of two things, that it was autumn and that the snows would be picking up soon, or these were the infamous summer snows that the well traveled southerners lambasted the North for. It made no difference really, given my climate adaptable, extremely enchanted clothing. Additionally, the cold never bothered me anyway-… and now that song is stuck in my head. _Lovely_.

My updated mental map told me that I was about five or so miles from the ocean where there was a decent sized gathering of people to the west, though it would be a downward incline from here through the thickets that were heavy with the smell of pine needles. I shrugged to myself before getting a move on. At least the walk would be peaceful, even if my thoughts would be anything but.

The snow crunched lightly under my feet as I made my way to civilization, or what passed for it in these parts anyhow, all the while keeping track of the activity that was progressing in what must've been a village by the sea. There were 'blips' out on the water about fifteen minutes inbound from making landfall, which I had initially assumed were fishermen. Now, I could only get a general sense of life forms through my leyline enhanced extrasensory perception, but were fishermen supposed to return home all together like that? Something else for me to mull over. I had taken to distracting myself away from my thoughts with some humming, absently pleased with how this world apparently had not been sung into creation, otherwise it had the potential to devolve into a musical number, like it oftentimes did in Arcania. Don't get me wrong, I love my adopted country, but a man like me could only handle so much spontaneity before his vexation capacitors shorted and he desired nothing more than to bury himself in his well fortified man cave and seal the entrance behind him.

On the bright side, the song stuck in my head had since been replaced by superior ones.

Eventually I had made it to a bushy outcropping that overlooked what was doubtlessly a fisherman's village surrounded by a small palisade wall and was composed of timber frame huts and wooden longhouses, if those crude skiffs carved out of thick logs and fish salting racks were any clue. But it was the flurry of activity downward to my right that had my attention. About one hundred and fifty five burly men, and interestingly some _women_ , were positioned in what were unmistakably defensive lines just outside the village. Their accoutrements consisted of boiled leather, the occasional patchy outfits of ringmail, aged mail coifs, and thick bearskin furs. In their hands were maces, axes, swords, banded shields, and wooden cudgels. Slit trenches with wooden spikes angled in the sands ahead of them were dug into the beach, and even now at the rearmost trenches there were a dozen or so archers stringing hunting bows. All of them looked ready to spill some blood, even though greater than three quarters of their number were laying in repose, as if they were laying in ambush.

Along the five hundred feet of linear-ish, sandy shoreline were a gaggle of watercraft of varying size that were frenetically paddled and closing in on the beach at arbitrary spots, landing with an appalling lack of coordination that twinged at my inner commander to watch. The men and _women_ that began rushing the beach were a straggly, unkempt bunch (Even by the local standards). Clad in mismatched, torn leather armor, worn sealskin, and patchy breeches, they made a cacophonous racket as they trudged ashore. The majority of their arms were not made in iron, but constituted an ill assorted mix of copper, flint, and even _bone_ of all things, though an odd fighter here and there wielded a badly chipped or rusted iron sword that was likely pilfered from an unfortunate victim, if I was right about who these invaders were.

There were more of them disembarking from dozens of boats (if you could call those shoddy, built with green wood, barely floating, leaking contraptions shaped like coracles and skiffs that) and wading through the icy waters onto the beach sands, belting out a shrill war cry the whole time. In ten seconds of observation, I knew that the aggressors were outmatched by the defenders in equipment quality, but outnumbered them further than two to one to counterbalance the disadvantage. In spite of this, the defenders seemed to be performing remarkably well against the odds at the onset, though to be fair the attackers had no sense of organization or discipline beyond charging the enemy wherever they could see them. This meant that they were running straight into the proverbial jaws of the bear.

Though they were few, the native archers were devastatingly accurate with their fire, and the attackers were falling to them piecemeal by threes and fours. While some of the defending warriors were on their feet and holding fast, the rest were laying prone on their bellies in the laterally dug trenches that were moreover hidden with adjacent sand dunes, as they were hiding their numbers until the enemy was near enough and in such manageable numbers to spring a trap, which I admired as a solid tactic. If it was timed right, it would demoralize the enemy, who had been duped into thinking they were attacking easy prey, while also cutting down their numbers in their stupefaction. They held their ground defiantly, not a man or woman among them shaken at the sight of so many enemies rapidly closing in on them. Though to be fair, the overall worth of their enemy left much to be desired… and their archers had a tiny bit of high ground sloped to their advantage.

When there were four dozen or so attackers in counter-charging range, I saw a bear of a man on the defending side in the center mass of the warriors raise an expertly forged sword high into the crisp morning air and bellow powerfully, " _Here We Stand!_ "

" **HERE WE STAND!** " His fellow warriors echoed his words, and I then knew him to be the leader.

The raiders (and it was abundantly obvious to me that was what they were) answered the challenge eagerly and angrily, their feet kicking up sand as they clamored onwards, unwisely splitting their war band in the process. For a moment, the fervent roar of the defenders drowned the raiders' war cries out as they slammed into their enemies and battle was officially joined. Round wooden shields knocked men off their feet and left them open to a finishing stab, turning the sand beneath them as crimson as my eyes. Maces flashed and bludgeoned unarmored faces until they resembled raw ground beef. One or two would be lost to unfortunate stabs to the gut from dying raiders that were determined to drag their enemies into death with them. The initial wave was thinned out in no time flat as the leader of the defenders cut through half a dozen men on his own, his blade hacking them down like wheat before a scythe. With a shouted order and gesture, his men and women formed a scarcely passing, but still effective shield wall and braced themselves against the incoming horde.

I decided that now was the time for me to intervene, "Time for the ol' song and dance that is battle" I droned to myself, already knowing which side I would choose to aid as I exited the camouflage of the bushes and slid down the rocky outcropping onto the pebbly sands before the main beach at the edges of the village's palisade. Calm as I appeared on my exterior as I stalked along the outer limits, inside I was almost giddy with anticipation. This was one exercise that I didn't need to overthink about.

The nighest person to notice me as I ambled onto the sands was a flanking woman raider, though it was a challenge to tell with her wrapped snugly underneath all of that seal leather and animal fur. She glanced at me in faint confusion (perhaps dumbfounded by my somewhat dazzling fashion sense) for half a second before anger morphed that expression into bloodlust and she screamed something in a rough, primitive sounding foreign tongue I had yet to understand, charging at me with a driftwood spear tipped with what could have been chipped whalebone. I casually sidestepped the first lunge, ducked under the second swipe, and turned aside a third with a slap of my palm to the haft. All the while the woman made these hisses of anger as I actively frustrated her without a hint of effort on my part. To be honest, I had found that 'vanilla mortals' (as a certain Chicago wizard would refer to them) perceptively moved in ultra slow motion relative to myself, and that wasn't just my years of experience in close combat talking.

During these attempts at skewering me, not that a simple bone spear had the slightest hope of piercing the painstakingly crafted, insanely durable yet oddly flexible dragonscale coat that covered my chest, shoulders, and torso (gifted to me by a three thousand year old Dragon Patriarch no less! Though to be fair, he had no use for what were essentially shed patches of molted skin from the tip of his tail. It also helped that his two toned red and black scales matched my color scheme) that had allowed me to weather _far worse_ , let alone the unyielding enchantments on my helmschmied drachen-esque robes, the woman presented five wide openings that would have spelt her doom to someone who had spent years immersed in mortal combat. It wasn't my first time fighting women, but I had never felt comfortable with killing them, unless they were truly vile, without adequate reason. Call me sexist or old school, but striking a woman always left an acrid taste in my mouth.

Our little tango came to an end when I finally stopped dodging her attacks and stood still for a spear thrust aimed straight at my heart, which the woman did not hold back on. There was a splintering crack as the tip of the spear virtually disintegrated down to the bulbous chunk where the head was fixed to the shaft via leather strips. The woman was absolutely shocked as I stood there with the same serene yet detached expression on my face, not having shifted a millimeter from her strike. I used that lull in our duel to seize the shaft of the spear with a hand, pull the astonished woman up towards me, and promptly head-butt her in the face. I barely put any real oomph into it, otherwise her skull would split open like an overripe melon. Her noggin flopped back as she went limp, the anger fizzling out of those light blue eyes of hers. She crumpled bonelessly to the floor, alive, but bleeding from a broken nose.

Others had noticed my entry into the foray by now, though since the flanking attackers were closer in proximity, they came to me first, likely thinking me some kind of ally to their enemy, which was true in a way. The next person to try their luck was a shaggy haired man who probably never bathed a day in his life, judging from his sour, oily smell. He was wielding a flint axe in one hand and a bone studded club in the other. He had some measure of skill with the unorthodox combo, pressing the distance between us to make the most of his twirling attacks. Regardless, even the best these raiders could scrounge out of their ranks was utterly lacking in my eyes. After I ducked a spinning swipe from his axe, I held up my left arm to block the one holding the club. I whipped out my Tantō from its sheath on my upper backside and planted it into his spinal column, severing it and paralyzing him beneath the waistline instantly… and also piercing his intestines.

It was a slow death, and gave a man time to think on his sins.

Aware that I was not someone to be trifled with, a trio of raiders approached me cautiously, taking advantage of my relative isolation from the embattled defenders at the palisade wall and surrounding me. One of them gasped, seeing whom I had turned into a paraplegic bleeding out onto the snowy sands.

"You'll pay for killing my brother, kneeler scum!" A woman dressed similarly to the first one I faced sibilated at me.

"He's not dead yet" I answered calmly but drolly as I sheathed my blade, "Though I wouldn't count on him walking ever again"

My flippant attitude triggered the woman, who made to stab at my gut with a rusted sword. I easily dodged the attack and grabbed her by her arm to use her own momentum against her by swiveling on my feet and shoving her into a male comrade that was trying to backstab me. They landed in a pile of limbs and I hid a wince to see the man's own sword jutting half a foot from the woman's chest, a very much mortal wound. The third man was beginning to reconsider his odds after how I carelessly manhandled his companions, wavering between backing off and throwing caution to the wind. He chose the latter, tossing his bone spear at me with the hopes that I'd be too slow to do anything about it. He thought erroneously, as I snatched the spear in midair, flipped it around like a baton, and sent it sailing right into his face like a javelin. It erupted out the other side in a bloody explosion of gore, the force of it throwing his body backwards as the five-foot long shaft terminated halfway through.

The sandy blonde man who I had pinned under the body of the woman had just finished rolling her corpse off of himself, staring with light horror as his sword was still wedged in her chest. He was a tad young, and I was guessing this was his first time doing this sort of thing. He practically soiled himself as he looked upon the facial ruins of the other man just across from him. He gaped at me, and I could see that I put the fear of God into him. Or whatever these unwashed, stinking heathens believed in, that is.

" _Run_ " I advised him, "Lest you share in their fates"

He didn't need to be told twice, bolting off in the opposite direction, only for an abrupt arrow from the defenders to take him in the neck with a crimson spurt. He gasped and choked on his own blood, palming at the wound weakly on the sand before his throes ceased altogether. I airily shook my head. I know he was scared of me, but running towards other people willing to kill him to escape me was just idiotic. Sometimes I frightened the good sense out of people.

I stifled a string of invective as a few more arrows dotted the earth around me, forcing me to jump back a bit if I wanted to avoid the dreaded arrow in the knee. My adventuring days were not over, after all.

Clearly the defenders weren't able to tell friend from foe, or they didn't believe in that 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' spiel. A second volley of arrows landed harmlessly about me and I nabbed one out of the air, having intuitively anticipated where they'd land and repositioned appropriately. It was a skill I had refined over the course of many battles, and there weren't enough archers on the defending side to actually require me to reveal my _other_ abilities. I presented the appropriated arrow, an iron tipped job that was average in craftsmanship, making sure the archers aiming for me could see it. I then lodged it into the throat of a man who howled his presence as he attempted to charge me with a copper short sword. I took his head and twisted it, hearing a gratifying crackling snap that guaranteed a cervical fracture and his death. A glance at the defending archers told me that they had wisely reorganized their target priorities.

Sometimes I needed to frighten the good sense _into_ people.

It was a pitched battle now on the beach, as the defenders were slowly pushed back from what sparse ground they retained beyond the palisades. They had taken some casualties, but every man and woman of theirs that fell, died swinging, bringing many with them into the cold embrace of death. One of the biggest reasons for this was that the defenders were organized, while the attackers charged their enemy pell-mell, skewering themselves on the shield wall that had formed almost parallel with the palisades.

"There's something you don't see everyday" I murmured to myself, watching with a morbid fascination as a _polar bear_ with a rider atop bowled over the men composing the shield wall with sheer mass and momentum. That must've necessitated a custom made boat of their own to transport them here.

Realizing that the defenders were now in legitimate danger of being outmaneuvered and overrun by their numerically superior opponents, I decided that now was the time to quit pussyfooting around. Flipping my hood over my head, I reached behind me as my fingers brushed against the handle of the blade that had seen me through many an obstacle. There was a rasp of metal on scabbard ( _oh so satisfying!_ ) as _Dichotomy_ was freed from its confines. The scabbard had been a gift from a special someone, and held an equally special enchantment that 'told my story', so to speak, in a mural of sorts on the flat visible surface facing outwards, and the less visible surface facing inwards.

It was ever changing, adding new segments to the cycle it would go through with each hour as the lines faded in and out. Contrary to popular belief, a regular scabbard for any particularly lengthy sword carried on the back was impractical, as you'd need longer arms in the style of the Slenderman to properly sheathe and unsheathe it, which is why mine did not wholly encapsulate the blade. Instead, the blade was partially exposed as it slid along a semi-halved shaft that was designed to widen as it was being pulled out, thus allowing the blade unimpeded movement as it was drawn in a swing out fashion. Resheathing it had been annoying at the start, but I usually just telekinetically sheathed it, like Mortal Kombat's Kenshi. I would have to be mindful about doing that here, with how taboo magic was undoubtedly perceived here.

I twirled the approximately meter long, feather light blade in front of me, listening to that faint, soothing hum as it sliced through the air effortlessly. Normally I was loath to use my mainstay weapon on what amounted to unworthy opponents in my eyes, but the situation called for it, and I had a personal vow to keep no matter where I was. _Dichotomy_ felt 'eager' in my hands, and glowed a faint red for a moment; showcasing the fifteen individual shard streams of the pieces it was composed of. Don't get me wrong, _Dichotomy_ was not alive in the direct sense of the word, but due to the inherent bond between Mage-blade and Trifect, it _reflected_ some aspects of the user.

I leaned forward and my body tensed like a spring. If anyone had been paying close attention, they would have seen the outline of ghostly wings sprout from my shoulder blades. Releasing the tension, I shot ahead as if launched by a catapult; sprinting so fast I could have made the best Olympic speedsters seem like octogenarians with ankle weights. I cleared the gap separating myself from the main gaggle of raiders and with a series of swipes, bisected seven raiders that were in the way as I skidded to a halt among their disorderly ranks. Normal swords would be incapable of this feat, but _Dichotomy_ was _most certainly_ not a normal sword, nor did it have a normal edge to it. I gave the raiders no time to recover or even comprehend what just hit them as the immediate vicinity became awash with a whirlwind of activity and death. Limbs were amputated from bodies, heads rolled like soccer balls, and torsos were halved so abruptly that they wouldn't even spray blood until they sagged onto the sand.

The war cries of the raiders transformed into shrieks of dismayed surprise and finally terror. Imagine if you would a hooded figure steamrolling through the ranks like a buzz saw and that's a basic comparison to what happened. I didn't blame them for it, since I could be scarily efficient in the art of killing. Couple that with the fact that my targets were vanilla mortals, and it was like a hungry tiger in a hen house, although infinitely more gruesome. The shock of my attack actually convinced the rear elements of the raiders to turn tail and run back to their boats, so frightened were they that they dropped all items impeding them in their retreat, such as their shoddily made weapons. The middle element had no such luck, and I trail blazed a red path through them that not a one of them had a hope of surviving. I felt like I was sucking on chalk at the agonized screams of the women warriors among them as I killed them, but I did not discriminate on the field of battle… and they chose to be here.

Two and half dozen had fallen by the time the remaining raiders became cognizant that their fortunes had twisted against them as the heart of their lackluster formation was torn out messily. Of course, when you realize that your subpar weapons cannot block a blade that can literally make you into a halfman, suddenly discretion seems to be the better part of valor in hindsight, which I did not grant them. There were still a large group of stragglers pouring in through a breach that the rider with the polar bear mount had created in the shield wall, its muscly mass knocking the shield-men flat and making them easy prey for its claws and jaws. If it wasn't plugged up and dealt with posthaste, then there would be a lot of additional dead Bear Islanders by the end of the day. I decided to let the remainder of the raiders retreat to lick their wounds while I spun in place, darted toward the jumbled shield wall of the defenders, and leapt over them with a flawlessly executed example of acrobatics.

There were still two dozen or so raiders that had followed their furry battering ram into the gap, forcing the now split shield wall formation to bend back to compensate for the attackers. Normally this would have spelt the end of the shield wall's effectiveness, as once there was a big enough gap in the lines, then the enemy could simply fill it in before dividing and conquering. However, thanks to yours truly, these brave fools would be getting no reinforcements to aid them. I made my way to the melee erupting through the split line, advancing brutally like the implacable man I was. I chopped a copper sword in twain before lashing out with a mighty punch that reduced the bearded man's face to a hamburger patty (I was deceptively strong), slashed my Tantō across a nearby woman's neck with my free hand, and collapsed another man's chest cavity with a spinning kick, all in one practiced motion. My way to the rider on the polar bear was unrestricted now.

Said rider and bear were now engaged in single combat with the leader of the defenders, after the bear had mauled two of his comrades with its claws and teeth while the rider, another woman, I discerned, skewered a third trying to pull her off with an iron leaf tipped spear. I wondered to myself if this was one of those Wargs that could insert their minds into their animal familiars and control them. I'd rarely encountered people who could get their mounts to do the bulk of the killing for them using their will alone, and my curiosity bid me to capture her for study. The leader of the stalwart defenders was having a hell of a time keeping out of the way of the polar bear's swipes and harrowing jaw snaps. The man had gotten lucky with a back swing and slashed the right limb of the polar bear, cutting deep. The off white creature snarled and roughly butted its noggin against the man who had wounded it, sending him sprawling back, dazed. If someone didn't do something right away, he was likely to become lunch.

" _Father!_ " I heard a young lad shout desperately in the background somewhere near to my six.

That sealed it. I took my Tantō, kissed the flat of the blade (a tried and true tradition for me), while ignoring the tangy taste of the blood on it, and flung it at the head of the bear as it reared back to pounce on the now downed man. I didn't even have to use magic to guide its path. My aim was impeccable as the blade went hilt deep through its eye, piercing its brain and slaying it instantly. The woman riding on top let rip a blood curdling screech of pain that topped every other I'd heard that day, sliding off her crude leathern saddle and onto the ground, where she had a violent case of spasms before promptly going stock still. I jogged over to her and laid a palm on her forehead, absently noting the red curls that were poking out from her wannabe Eskimo parka's hood. A scrupulously concealed full body diagnostic spell informed me that she was still alive and no worse for wear physically besides some week old hematomas, but rendered unconscious with what evidently were highly irregular brain waves that were shifting back to baseline normality. Hmm… my curiosity about the operation of her abilities was justified it seemed.

I directed my attention back to the bear's carcass and the scruffy man that was getting back to his feet with the help of a lad no older than fourteen. He gently reassured the boy, who must have been his son, that he was unharmed with a hand clamp to his shoulder and a silent, but comforting look. The man looked like a great big bear himself, what with his light strands of dark brown fur speckled with snow, though there were signs that he was on the verge of balding. He was wide shouldered and powerfully built, heavily muscled, and the dark eyes set in his weather beaten, scratched up face had that youthful glow (in spite of his burgeoning age) that only appeared in men who devote themselves entirely to the fight. They also bespoke of a piercing intelligence characteristic of a leader of men. He was absolutely covered in the blood, sweat, and muck of a hard fought skirmish, having immersed himself completely in the fight from start to finish. There was no mistaking it; this man was a leader of men, and women too.

Clutched steady in his strong, paw like hands was a hand and a half sword that almost rivaled mine for sexiness in its darkish grey hue that could be seen even through the slick sheen of blood rapidly cooling upon its three fullers (Fittingly nicknamed blood gutters). On its pommel was the head of a black bear, carved in wood and inlaid with small ruby eyes. I knew this blade from its descriptions in a book series that I had read when I was still a relatively ordinary fellow. This was the treasured Valyrian steel blade of the Mormonts (the one object of extreme value that the otherwise poor family possessed), Longclaw, which guaranteed that the man wielding it was a Mormont himself. That ancestral sword was currently leveled at me in a guarded stance as he glared at me down the bridge of his flat, prominent nose. His stance was reminiscent of someone dealing with a threat rather than a savior. He was wise to do so, though it irked me never the less.

"What are you doing on this island, stranger?" He demanded in an official, commanding voice that was idiosyncratic of feudal lords.

Internally I staved off the urge to sigh. I was not looking forward to another repeat of that dreadful business in Gryphondria. Still, it had taught me a few things about comporting one's self in an ofttimes brutish medieval system. It had also allowed me to refine my skill with directing men in a period of transition from pike, to matchlock arquebus, to flintlock musket, which was an experience with no equal. Although, with all the horrors that the introduction of gunpowder in an otherwise medieval tech system and the respective thought conventions associated had ushered in, it was not a wholly positive experience. Too much blood had been shed in those ensuing months.

At least none of these people could fly. That simplified things _tremendously_.

I held back a scoff, "That's a fine expression of gratitude to the one who saved your hide"

"You have my thanks for slaying the beast" He gave a curt nod, "Irony is not how I'd like to leave this world" He permitted wryly, before returning to his cold hostility, "Now state your business here on Bear Island. It's clear to me you're no wildling scum, but we've not had a southron or the like on this island in decades, especially not one so deadly in a fight"

"I'm not a southron. Nor am I from anywhere around here" I carefully clarified, disliking the untrusting tone with which he described me, though I understood it from his point of view. I had just proved to him that I was a greater danger to his people than the raiders were.

"You look like a southron to me" The boy by the man's side commented, before he was silenced by a stern glance from his father. He mechanically shut his trap with a childlike wince, which was made super ironic by the fact that he was blooded in battle himself and therefore indisputably a man by this society's 'rooted in masculinity' standards.

The sounds of battle had lowered by a dramatic degree at this juncture, as half of the shield wall's manpower were either looting corpses, policing prisoners too wounded to die fighting, separating their dead from the others, or pursuing the leftover raiders that were retreating to their ramshackle boats and getting the heck outta dodge back to whence they came. It was unlikely that they would catch any that were uninjured, but I would not fault them for it. It didn't hurt to be too thorough in my book. The remainder of the warriors were warily watching my unforthcoming interaction with their lord, ready to aid him at a moment's notice if I became hostile, not that I had a pressing reason to be. Not a person in sight appeared overly hesitant to clash with me if conflict erupted, which bespoke of the loyalty the people on this island had towards the ruling House. Assuming nothing went terribly wrong here, I looked ahead to my future interactions with this family. Such steadfast loyalty was a hard to find commodity in any world sans my own these days.

A bushy eyebrow rose a quarter inch on the man's forehead, "And from what direction do you hail from, foreigner?" He fished for information, "The Free Cities of Essos mayhaps?"

"I come from a land you would not recognize the name of" I replied in the negative.

This displeased him, but he could tell he would wring little out of me, "Are you a threat to my people?" He cut to the heart of the issue, studying me intensely.

I shook my head, "I'm no threat to you and yours unless you and yours go out of your way to provoke me to action"

"That's not a guarantee that you'll be no problem" He pointed out sullenly.

"The only guarantees in life are death and taxes" I partially quoted Ben Franklin.

My ambiguous and far from neutral response had slightly unnerved him, "And how would we provoke you, exactly?"

From the tense way he was eyeing me, I believe it was rhetorical. His eyes flicked to somewhere over my shoulders and I knew that he was giving nonverbal commands to whoever was behind me to gird themselves in case I became aggressive, archers perhaps, given how suicidal it was to engage me face to face. It was still suicidal to try offing me from range as well, but they did not know that yet. I had to admit he and the men under his command had courage, everyone with functioning eyes had seen what I was capable of. The trail of bisected, decapitated, and dismembered bodies beginning to cool on the sand was a testament to the devastation I could wreak. And that was solely through martial ability. I didn't need my extrasensory perception to discern the creaky draw of repurposed hunting bows to my rear with strings damp from the morning's moisture, which I knew from experience affected the bow's performance… not that it would matter at this proximity.

"Before you get any hasty ideas, I'd recommend telling your people to stand down" I began with false cheer, "Nothing good ever comes from attempting to catch me off guard" Since my guard was never entirely relaxed to start with.

The lord considered this lightly worded warning gravely, which did not go unnoticed by his men, nor ignored.

"I saw 'im tear into the wildlin's ranks like they was naught but chaff, m'lord Jorgan. E' caught me arrow too, snatched it out of the air, e' did!" One of my would be assailants interjected in ludicrously broken English (I don't care what it's called here), "Never seen a person kill so swiftly! E's dangerous e' is. Not a man, but some an'ry spirit!"

I made a note of the lord's name and how unfamiliar it was. Just when was I in this world's timeline?

' _Ah the joys of superstitious societies_ ' I mentally sighed. This was going to be a consistent theme here, wasn't it?

"Make no mistake. I am a man" I gainsaid the nameless naysayer, "But I am also much _more_ " I concluded mysteriously, "Tell you what. As a gesture of goodwill," I twirled _Dichotomy_ in hand once as I sheathed my blade with a practiced eloquence. The movement alone spooked all those gathered about, "I'll put away my arms. If you still feel that I am not to be trusted, then by all means… attack me" I dared them, "But know this. I have an irrevocable right to defend myself"

The bald-faced confidence in my voice in spite of my surroundings dissuaded them from trying their nonexistent luck with me. I walked around the dead polar bear (being tracked by a ring of men, who were either too afraid to attack or dutifully awaiting an order from their lord to do so) and knelt aside it to withdraw my Tantō from the slain beast's eye socket, wiping the blood and viscera off the blade on the messy, bloodstained fur of the animal, dyeing it a further crimson.

The Lord of Bear Island processed all this with a heavy frown, internally debating what was to be done about this situation. The fact that the matter of what to do with lil' ol' me troubled him like this whereas a recent incursion of the Free Folk merely inconvenienced him was not lost on me. Maybe to his ears and eyes I sounded and acted arrogant, but that would have been him accrediting me with false attributes, since my solid demeanor had not changed for the entirety of this exchange, and I could back up my words with feats. Regardless of the outcome of this bandying of words, it wasn't a question of whether I could handle his men or not. It was a question of whether or not they could handle _me_.

Which they couldn't. Not even if their melee weapons had been replaced with modern firearms. And from the scowling look of him, it seemed lord Jorgan Mormont agreed with that assessment.

"Put away your steel, all of you!" He ordered with a snort as he lowered, but cautiously did not sheathe, his weapon, "Enough of my people have shed their blood this day. I will not have another drop needlessly spilled on these sands"

With reluctant slowness, the men and women under his command obeyed their lord, sheathing swords, hooking axes to belts, attaching daggers to harnesses, and otherwise stowing their weapons. I could distinctly feel the glares on the back of my neck subside begrudgingly as the battle-tested lord gesticulated for them all to return to their duties, though a dozen or so, likely bodyguards or household armsmen, stayed close at hand for their lord's protection. Personal hang-ups came second to a direct order from a lord in a feudal society. I could respect the efficiency of the purely medieval system, if little to nothing else about it.

He marched at me, stopping just shy of hugging distance, "I'm putting my trust in you, stranger, if only for the aid you have rendered my people this day" He pointed an index finger upwards at me, " _Do not_ make me rue that" My looming two hundred and twenty centimeter frame did not deter him, which I respected and appreciated, whereas his subjects continued to treat me as if I was not human.

That was another obstacle hampering me from appearing nonthreatening. Ever since my preternatural _growth spurt_ , I had difficulty blending into most crowds that were not composed of hulking Minosians… at least without the use of transformative or illusory magic, and while I was not self conscious in a vainglorious or just plain vain manner, the stares I attracted in public due to my imposing form did grate on me every now and then. On the plus side, no goodies stored atop of pantries were safe from me.

"M'lord!" An armsman with a bleeding gash on his right arm that was visible through the cheap looking ringmail reported, "We've rounded up some prisoners for you" He bore his wound with good grace, though anyone could tell that it pained him, as he was wincing intermittently, "Shall I bring 'em forth?"

At his lord's prompting nod, he waved forward the six captives that had been bound with hemp rope and who had not been fortunate to die, garner the mercy of death due to debilitating or mortal wounds, or escape with their brethren. Two of them were women (not counting the one laying unnaturally still at my feet, who no one had come to collect, either out of fear of me or because they had forgotten her was unknown), though given how fugly they were, I wasn't too sure on that one. One thing that _was_ for sure, if it weren't for the stench of death and decay already permeating the battlefield, my nose would be wrinkling from how filthy they smelled… like decades rotted, half frozen fish guts, piss, and excrement. How could anyone bear to live smelling like an old Chinese restaurant's dumpster?

One of the captives, a thin man with gnarled teeth and a sallow, sunken, bearded face was tossed to the lord's feet, while Jorgan stood august and formidably above him, his son standing lawfully beside his father, though he made no secret of his hatred of the Free Folk, glowering fiercely at the prisoner.

Mormont shook his head at him condescendingly, "When will you Wildlings ever learn that you are not welcome on this Island so long as there are brave men and women willing to defend it?"

"Piss on you, kneeler!" The man sneered up at him, before spitting at him. But the middle aged lord's reaction time was quick, catching the loog on the backside of his hand, which he proceeded to wipe on the furs of his prisoner while backhanding him in the same motion, making the prisoner reel back with blood dribbling down from a newly split lip, upping his ugliness factor by five points as he struggled to erect himself with his feet hobbled with cords of hemp.

"Normally the punishment for killing any member of a Lord's people unjustly is a choice between death or the Wall" Jorgan lectured on with a detached tone, "Seeing as the Honorable men of the Night's Watch deal with your kind primarily and are unlikely to accept your questionable oaths, I will save them the hassle of killing you themselves. Fetch me a block and bend his neck" The lord commanded gruffly.

His men complied; seizing the beaten raider's pitch colored hair and pushing him to his knees none too gently before forcing him to stare at the sands once someone had brought what I believe was a repurposed, portable tree stump from the fishing village to function as the chopping block. This was confirmed once I espied the dark brown marks upon it from prior usage. The prisoner remained stubbornly silent but I could see the faint tremors in his body that he was trying to keep under wraps, whether out of fear as being seen in his last moments as a coward by those in attendance or his natural survival instincts overpowering his conscious efforts to face his inevitable execution without remorse was indeterminable without utilizing unethical means available only to me.

Jorgan motioned for his son to give him an unsullied cloth strip to clean off Longclaw, which I thought was counterintuitive, since he was about to sully it again. Once he was finished making his family sword presentable, he walked with deliberate slowness to the rightmost side of the condemned as if he were bored. It was uncertain if he did this to make the prisoner sweat or because he really didn't care either way. Both could be argued. Though he hid it skillfully, the lord was fatigued from battle and the people of Bear Island long had a deep-seated disregard for their wilder, reaving cousins north of the Wall. It was a shame that a several hundred foot high, frozen barrier was part of the reason for this enmity betwixt people who shared common ancestry as blood of the First Men, but such things could not be helped where humans were concerned.

Intentional or not, the wait became overbearing for the soon to be dead man, "WAIT! Wait! I have a final request!" He shrieked before Jorgan could recite in whose name he would do justice for. I doubted his name was Eddard, but family bloodlines in Westeros went such a ways into the past that it wasn't a safe bet to make.

"Final requests are heard from honorable Northmen, not reaving wildling scum" Jorgan huffed disparagingly, the corners of his mouth tightening with displeasure.

"Others take you! I am a _true_ Northman! Truer than any _kneeler_ man here!" The angry prisoner spat with vitriol (and a bit of blood too), "And we ever remember the Old Ways. Slay me before the eyes of the Gods, let me embrace eternity at the roots of a Weirwood!"

That particular request caused a spark of murmurs to echo around the men and women assembled. From what I recall, the people of the North kept to their animistic religion of the Old Gods, and believed in the nameless, naturalistic deities that were worshipped well before men ever set foot on this continent, when the mystical fae like Children of the Forest held dominance over Westeros. Jorgan's face hardened and his eyes became unreadable, perhaps weighing the immensity of his captive's request and the urge to just kill him and be done with it. He could go with the latter and shorten the man by a head here and now, but there would possibly be those amongst his people who would disapprove and whisper about how he could be so callous as to deny a man what many considered the right to face his end before his Gods with faith in mind. The same Gods that he too worshipped no less, or gave the public impression of worshipping. Faith is a severely complicated topic among humans, I've learned.

I had somewhat sacrilegious views on this subject, but would politely keep them to myself. Human beings had an innate need to seek out things of a spiritual or metaphysical nature. I had heard it referred to as a God shaped hole in our hearts at my old church. If they did not fulfill it properly, they would fill that hole with a poorer substitute: food, drink, sex, work, recognition, achievements… anything that could give their lives everlasting meaning. Yet all of them were square pegs jammed into circular openings, and those who relied on these hedonistic, self-serving, worldly pleasures would wind up ultimately dissatisfied with themselves. I have found in my experience that having a profound sense of purpose and working it was the antidote to the existential void that plagued every single one of us, whether we admitted it to ourselves or not. And here were these people, putting their faith in a concept of nameless gods of the waters, stones, and trees. Their faith was a personal relationship with their deities, yes, and similar to mine in that regard. The distinguishing feature though was that these people put their faith in a natural order of things… and nature was scary, especially human nature.

Philosophy aside, this was an instance that showcased how leadership was a precarious balancing act. Denying the man's request would be to lose face among his pious followers who had a mutual religious culture with their enemy, or accepting, which would be risking other prisoners demanding the same treatment, and upsetting the hardliners who had lost friends and or family in the battle and were slavering for blood here and now. This was the sort of vaguely political horse dung that I left to the Princesses back home, since they were leagues better in the PR department than I was. Being an established war hero begat me less political clout than the lofty title of _Prince_ (and not Prince consort or prince with a lower case p like some of my contemporaries) bestowed upon me by the Princesses, which in my opinion I did nothing to achieve, though my loved ones would disagree earnestly on that. I'll strive for the benefit of the people even at my own bodily detriment, but do not ask me to put up with their vexing bullshit if I do not have to.

"What say you stranger?" Jorgan's chain smoker-like voice broke through my thoughts like a battering ram through a flimsy wooden gate, though I kept my expression blank.

"You want my opinion?" I said, skeptical of the underlying motive behind his including me in this spat.

"For all that you are a foreigner, were it not for your timely intervention, I would have less reason to hear out his words, and more reason to cease his ability to speak altogether. Furthermore I would have your measure in this affair" He explained in his brusque, yet refreshingly honest way.

"Very well" I nodded, "Not to remind a venerable lord of his duties, but one of them is to see justice done in his lands. These raiders deserve death for their harmful actions here" There were immediate murmurs and grunts of concurrence, definitely from those who had lost kith and or kin in the skirmish here.

"However," I declared, silencing all who were listening in, "true justice is impartial to the prejudices of factions. These prisoners…" I gestured to them, most glaring at me with hotter spite than they reserved for their original targets, "…are slated for death this day for crimes against the people of Bear Island. Where I'm from, captives sentenced to death are granted three things. A last meal, a last letter to friends or family to bid farewell, and a _last request_ … so long as it is not overly presumptuous"

The Lord of Bear Island noticed the emphasis I placed on that last point, and thoughtfully tilted his head as though he was leaning towards assent. I saw through this fake body language for what it was, a small ploy to shift any resentment at his lordship for deliberating a matter based on a foreigner's advice, however sincerely given. A man that he and his people ostensibly owed a boon to for my pivotal aid in the battle, which the mostly unscathed Lord Mormont likely would not have survived without me (I've had less subtle intervention moments, as I am wont to name them). I had to give him credit; Jorgan had a firmer grasp on politically minded intrigue than half of the bluebloods I've had to deal with (especially the eponymously named lesser prince himself, who was one of the biggest ponce's I had known when I first met him).

"Would you have me feed them and scratch out intelligible scribbles on my rolls of parchment that cannot be sent too?" He countered, drawing a string of concurring grunts and head wobbles from his warrior men and women.

"No" I conceded there, "But I fail to see any real harm in staging their execution before this Weirwood they revere" There were positive murmurs and grunts for me there, even from the disgruntled prisoners themselves.

These people are _weird_.

"If you yearn to do them this service then, for which they are unworthy of, then I would have you come with us to my family's keep and see this impartial justice done with your own hands in our Godswood, along with my son and I" He finally relented, sheathing Longclaw in its scabbard. While I saw some men and women grit their teeth in disapproval, the majority seemed behind the idea… not that their opinions carried weight versus their lord's solemn word.

"Done" I acceded pleasantly, having nothing else to do, "I have a condition though, if I am to be an unpaid assistant headsmen this day" I added as the prisoners were dragged away and elements of the Bear Islander force on the beach initiated the return trek to the home of the Mormonts. Already I could see non-combatant women, greybeards, and children from the successfully defended fishing village assisting in the cleanup of the beachfront and burial of the honored dead.

Normally, this would be presumptuous of me and anyone else in a likewise position. Regardless of my unwilling presence here, I was trespassing on his lands without his permission, so he was within his rights to evict me forcefully or demand a service of me in exchange for his consent to dwell among his people. Not that I thought unfavorably of Lord Mormont, for he seemed an upright, honorable fellow that factored in logic during his decision making. But even if he wasn't that kind of man, nobody with half a brain who had seen me do battle would demand _anything_ of me, let alone threaten me with violence if they didn't get their way.

"Name it" He folded like a house of cards in a gust.

"This woman here" I indicated to her where she lay, "The one that nearly killed you atop that white beastie of hers. Her life is _mine_ to decide the fate of"

That caused an acrimonious _uproar_ among those gathered at the outrageousness of my prerequisite stipulation. Gee, you'd think I suggested that everyone smear themselves in petrol fluid and set themselves on fire while doing the chicken dance naked from the reception I got. Lord Mormont shouted it down with a fearsome bellow before it could escalate into something that could not be taken back once committed to. As angered by my chutzpah as they were, they still respected the chain of command and fell silent. The men and women of Bear Island were remarkably vocal for the underlings of a feudal lord, more akin to a tribe than a fiefdom. Perchance there was a historical precedent for the Lord of Bear Island to hear his people's counsel afore a ruling, like a Clan Chieftain. The man himself stared at me for the longest time, as if reevaluating whatever judgment he had made of me previously. The lord's tweenaged son looked about in confusion, not getting what had everybody up in arms for what had to be the umpteenth occasion. Though I had a good guess as to what.

"What do you intend with her?" He interrogated me, his voice as harsh and cold as winter itself, "Nothing unspeakable, I should hope? I have little mercy for wildlings, but none for rapers. I _geld_ all those that I catch on my lands" His hand rested threateningly on the ursine pommel of his ancestral sword, and everyone besides me tensed in anticipation. Rape must have been a sore spot with Lord Mormont to warrant so potent a reaction, I posited.

"Nothing of the sort" I answered in the negative, "I merely wish to study her… _unique_ way with animals" And I would be a lot nicer about it than Twilight when she gets into one of her 'neurotic scientist' moods. I never did forget when one of her moods touched upon a shortcoming that was almost my undoing, though I've forgiven her for it since then.

I don't think these people understood what wargs were based on their flabbergasted gaping at me for my reasoning, unless I grew a second head without realizing it in the preceding minute. That would suck.

"And after you are done with her? What then?" He churlishly continued, "What will you do with her?"

"I'll take her home, I suppose, back to her people" Giving her back to the Mormonts would probably not be conducive to her health, and in spite of being blooded herself in battle, she was below my age of accountability without deliberation.

The young skinchanger was only fifteen, after all.

"Why?" A woman warrior spoke out, "So she can fin' 'erself another ferocious creature to mount when she an' 'er kin attack us anew?" A chorus of agreements resounded with her.

"What? Worried I can't do a repeat of this?" I laid a foot on the polar bear's hefty carcass and rocked it like it was no heavier than a pillowcase, showing off the bloody ruin that was once its eye. I also reinforced the implication that I would take charge of her.

"She has wounded and killed many of my men" He reminded me, "And I would have been among the slain, were it not for you"

"And for that, I implore you to show some mercy" I bent down to peel back her parka hood, revealing a petite, redheaded girl underneath. She appeared peaceful in her comatose like, dreamless sleep, "As you can see, she's hardly a woman grown… no older than five and ten namedays I'd estimate" I purposely fibbed. Magic doesn't give me ambiguous results. I could tell you so much about a person based on the output of a single, simple spell used in every hospital and triage center back home.

"A girl who is old enough to have shed Bear Islander blood is old enough to be judged as an adult by our people's customs" He intonated with a lordly inflection.

I couldn't argue with that, "Indeed she is. But as she is so young for a wildling, she's not as set in their troublemaking ways. Why waste a life when these lands are so under populated as it is? If you so wanted, you could take her in and raise her as one of your own?" I tested the waters for foisting this girl off on someone else after I had learned all I could about her warging powers. I disliked babysitting anyone prone to danger.

"I'll never break bread with a wildling!" Mormont's son declared venomously, "Don't listen to him, father! Don't listen! They killed my mo-" He was interrupted by his dad.

" _Quiet, Joran!_ " Lord Mormont barked at his offspring, who complied begrudgingly with a muttered 'Yes, my lord father'.

"That will not happen. My ancestors would frown on me if I willingly called a wildling one of mine own" He said to me, his brow wrinkling, "Not after what they've done to my family, and my people"

"I see…" I truly did, "Well I can promise you that you'll never see this particular wildling again if you release her to me"

"And how will you keep that promise?" He wanted to know.

"I have my ways" I replied enigmatically.

"You have made my morning interesting, and you have ensured that, Gods' willing, I will live to see another. You can have custody of her as my token of gratitude for that then, stranger" He ultimately acquiesced, satisfied with my sincerity thus far, "But you will be held responsible for her for the duration of her captivity on this Island" He warned me, which was fair.

"If she brings further harm to your people, I will separate her head from her shoulders myself" I meant it too, though I would see that it did not come to that.

"I believe you" He trusted in me, before suddenly apprehending something he forgot, "I can't well keep referring to you as stranger, lest I come across as an impolite, northron savage!" He grinned, self deprecatingly, "What shall I call you, lord…?" He presumed that I was a nobleman, perhaps because of my eloquent speech patterns, fancy yet practical vestment, and regal bearing. He was sort of right.

"I'm not a member of any Nobility (' _Though I am by necessity a member of Royalty_ ')" I informed him, pulling my treasured hood down to expose my face, "And you may call me Zenith"


	2. A Wayward Wizard receives a Revelation

A Wayward Wizard receives a Revelation

A.N: Happy Birthday to me, guess who's going to join the Navy?

"Why are your eyes like that?" A youthful (and oddly chipper; opined my modern mindset) voice piped up from beside me.

' _I was sort of expecting a 'How are you so clean after killing so many people?' observation_ ' I mused. Half of it was an inherent property of my 'physiology', and the other half was an enchantment on my attire that ensured that they never remained sullied. Though I supposed the black and red color scheme I had going on prevented any bloodstains that I acquired from standing out.

I gave a short glance to my left, where a recently blooded lordling rode on a short, shaggy horse, or garron as they were known here, alongside the cart that I was shadowing vigilantly. Even perched on a modest, unadorned leather saddle, he sat barely at my height as I walked the sandy dirt path with the rest of the warriors' column heading back to Bear Claw Bay, named so for the four long rents in the land that made it vaguely shaped as such, or so it had been reluctantly explained to me by a huntsman who had participated in this morning's defense when I inquired. This bay was also where the main settlement of the island was based, containing the vast majority of its population.

In the column were a number of those two wheeled flatbed carts that weren't quite wagons but so large that they had to be pulled by animal muscle, a la those anemic looking, furry garrons; requiring two of them to be harnessed per cart. As you can imagine, the pace that the column was setting was agonizingly slow by my admittedly high standards. If there was an emergency and the column had to rush for any given reason, I suppose they could beat feet. But after winning a frenzied skirmish by Free Folk raiders, I'm sure they were just taking it easy as they returned home after a hard fought victory, and with fewer casualties than was the norm from what was murmured. I garnered more looks of suspicion and wariness from my newfound acquaintances, but there were a few of gratitude and respect mixed in intermittently.

The prisoners we had taken and bound were being forced to march to their inevitable executions on foot, each getting rough shoves from disgruntled Bear Islanders whenever they were lagging. Several of those men and women who had been moderately wounded in action during the skirmish (though it was likely a battle in their eyes) between Free Folk raiders and Bear Islanders had been loaded onto the carts, nursing their injuries while being fussed over by whoever passed for healers here, while the one I was trailing aside was for the dead. I reckon I should have considered it bad juju that my unconscious captive slash responsibility for the duration of her stay on the island was in that cart as well, but I wasn't that kind of superstitious. Speaking of, the lass looked almost tranquil in her purposefully-prolonged-with-magic sleep. I couldn't have her waking up surrounded by perceived foemen and freaking out violently, thus ruining any chances of keeping her alive _and_ my credibility as her responsible captor in the same breath. I was not chomping at the bit to do an in-depth analysis of her warging abilities, as that would necessitate us being removed from prying eyes anyhow.

A man stealing away with a young girl in the night, _yeah_ , that wouldn't be misconstrued as anything _untoward_ at all here.

The cart bumped into a rock in the dirt path, dislodging a deceased Bear Islander with a hole in his neck from a spear thrust (Ironically… or perhaps it was queerly fitting, as this was one of _her_ kills). He slumped against the redhead, getting dark crimson fluid all over her, and ruining my peaceful mental picture of her forever. Scowling, I promptly, albeit respectfully, moved the corpse back to its original position. I did not fail to notice the angered stares I got from tailing grizzled warriors for showing such consideration towards a person they rightfully saw as their enemy, or why I lingered neared her in case somebody got any funny ideas. Some of those dirty looks were hostile in a different manner, like I was defending a claim. As if my captive were a _piece of meat_ for later consumption, which was totally untrue. Why they would draw a line at rape and apply it even to their enemy was yet to be revealed though. But it wasn't such a stretch to imagine that the people here had suffered all kinds of abuse from raiders.

Perchance that was why the great corpse of the polar bear, or Snow Bear, as they were named here, was being carted on its own behind us, as both a trophy and an insult to its still breathing rider. Normally I would have grit my teeth at such a blatant attempt at making my task as a babysitter harder, but they had no idea how easily such traumas were remedied by a feather light application of telepathic magic. Even brushing against her mind brought forth a deluge of vicarious memories laced with negative emotions. The girl had a hard life… that much was obvious from what I could tell without making the spell too invasive and leaving an imprint of my investigative 'perusing', which I refrained from. There was an unhealthy mix of fear, anger, resentment, and most worryingly of all… apathy. Whatever this girl had endured, it had left her stuck in the doldrums of a severely negative mindset.

I don't think she cared about the outcome of the raid or how she fared, one way or the other.

I had already surreptitiously healed the bruises and contusions that the girl had suffered well before the raid today, albeit I left the discoloration on the skin alone, as I needed to question her on that later. It was a curious thing, really. Why would a girl who clearly had control over a fearsome polar bear, if you will pardon the pun, bear such minor injuries on her person? I believed it had something to do with what I gleaned from her noggin. I made sure to put that on the list of inquiries I had for her when I allowed her to wake… once she was safe and secure in an area of _my_ choosing. Lord Mormont was loathe to have a 'wildling waif' in his home, and he told me as such, so I would have to find a space of my own to keep her during my sojourn.

But back to the conversation at hand.

"Why are my eyes like what?" I replied, even though I had a good idea as to what the lad meant.

"They're so… _red_ , like freshly leaked sap from our Heart Tree. The color of them is just strange, is all" The lordling commented, "I have never met a man with eyes like that"

"Variety is the seasoning that gives life flavor" I waxed philosophic, "I woke up like that one day" I then said to him truthfully, "Before then, they were just like yours, a warm shade of brown"

What feels like a lifetime and some change ago to me, now.

"Truly? You just… woke up like that?" He subtly prompted for the implied tale behind my words with that childlike fervor I'd seen in the eyes of the Mana Mark Maidens back when they were smaller rabble-rousers. Amazing, how a boy could be blooded in battle and yet retain some innocence, though, I hadn't actually witnessed him killing any of the raiders, so maybe that was why he seemed so unaffected.

"It's a bit of a story" I dismissed his muffled enthusiasm, "We would arrive at your home well before I could finish in the telling of it. But for now, how about you tell me of yourself, and your family? Yours is the ruling House on this island?" I subtly shifted subjects.

Almost predictably, that perked him up straightaway, "Aye. My family have been the protectors of Bear Island ever since King Rodrik Stark won it from a son of Loron Greyjoy in a wrestling match!" He happily boasted, as if he had witnessed the feat himself.

"A wrestling match, you say?" I partially feigned disbelief, "That's quite an assertion. And this son of Greyjoy just gave up ownership of the island?"

"No, the honorless craven tried to kill the King in the North afterwards" He spat in the sand, an action that other Bear Islanders eavesdropping on our conversation copied, "But King Rodrik suspected that his faithless foe wouldn't let it go without a fight, and so he had Greyjoy and his men killed and his ships set alight with their corpses upon them. My ancestor, Joram Mormont, aided him in that battle, and was rewarded with Lordship over this island along with his sons, from then on, till the end of days. He also gifted us with the Greyjoy's personal raiding ship as a token of his thanks" The boy added as an afterthought before scowling, "Though the wood has long since rotted to uselessness"

"What King does your family owe their allegiance to now?" I gently pried for information. An older person with sense would recognize my fishing for what it was, but the lad was all too happy to oblige me.

"Why, the Stark in Winterfell, King Torrhen Stark!" He chirped, smiling like he wasn't just in a fight for his life mere hours ago, "We feasted him at our hall once, when I reached my tenth year. He told me that I would grow up to be wise and strong, just like my father!" He was all but beaming like a spotlight.

I only half heard his enthusiasm, instead rolling the name over in my head. It had been a while since I had read about this world and its vast history, so the memory of that name's familiarity was coming to me as slowly as this column was moving. Plus, with noble families that went back thousands of years, and with House Stark being among the oldest of the lot, there was bound to be a crapton of Torrhen Starks. All I knew was that I had arrived most likely before there was Targaryen dominion over Westeros… or was I after it? The book series made it abundantly clear that the unity of the so called Seven Kingdoms was fracturing heavily due to matters of succession, multiple claims of varying legitimacy to the planet's spikiest chair, and everyone and their brother wanting to be the absolute _King_ or _Queen_ over the rest of the wretched pile.

The majority of them blissfully ignorant of the world rending threat looming over the horizon.

But that couldn't be right either, since we had just fought the Free Folk, and all of them had to migrate south in droves to avoid the Others hounding them endlessly. Even if this age was well after that fiasco, why would any of them go back beyond the Wall? Because they would not kneel to any Monarch? No, this had to be the far past. But what did that mean for me?

"-member his natural brother, Brandon Snow" Joran was reminiscing, lost in his own memories, "He showed me that one of the best ways to finish a man off was to hamstring him, disarm him, and then slash his throat" He patted at the pommel of the short iron sword sheathed at his hip, "After today, I'm like to believe him" He murmured a with a hint of solemnity. So he _did_ have his first kill this day.

 _That_ got my attention, "Your King has a natural brother?" That answered it then, this had to be before the Conquest, but how far?

Joran seemed to take insult at my innocently phrased words, "Do you take issue with bastards? Brandon Snow is as much a Stark as our King, in deed, thought, and action… even if he was born on the wrong side of the sheets"

I was somewhat touched at how quick Joran was to leap to the defense of his liege's half brother. It spoke well about his overall character.

"Not at all" I was just as quick to appease him, "I don't believe that bastardy alone determines a man's inherent worth, it simply makes him unable to inherit the same as his brethren" Unless he is elevated by the King, so why did Torrhen never do so? Did showing favor to a bastard reflect poorly on a King, even in the North?

"Aye, so it is" He was satisfied with this response, "My mother would have liked you. You have an open mind for a foreigner" His features sagged a bit at the mention of his mother, before he shook it off, "Are all people as accepting of bastards as you where you come from?"

"There are no bastards where I'm from" I told him matter of factly.

' _Bastards at heart, however…_ ' Trueborn people can be just as evil as anybody else… and conversely as goodhearted as well.

That surprised him, and even our burgeoning number of eavesdroppers were staring at me strangely, as though I had polka dotted skin. I checked myself for that just in case. The Princess of the Night did that to me once, as part of the evergoing prank war between Loony, her big sister, and myself. I got her back by replacing her special, exfoliating shampoo with a visually indistinct container of water resistant glue. I almost chuckled to myself. I had never seen stellar clusters so tightly packed before.

"Truly? N-none at all?" He stuttered, not certain of this averment.

"Truly" I affirmed, "Where I'm from, there's a law that requires the father of a child to be married to the mother, whether he means to or not" But most of them mean to, and those that are not, are aware of contraceptives… or they get exiled to a lesser level of Tartarus for their philandering.

I wish I could say that I was joking, but Princess Celestia took a very dim view of deadbeat dads. It was a wonder that Blueblood didn't find himself in cold caverns, given the careless promiscuity of his carefree youth.

"It's a law I happen to agree with" I expressed with sincerity, "Every child should be reared by both parents"

"B-but, wouldn't that mean that a man would have multiple wives if he sowed his seed wherever he liked?" He questioned, catching on to the implications of that.

I had to hand it to him, he was a sharp lad, and not so innocent as I would have guessed had I been dealing with a youth from my world. Then again, I learned about these things myself well before my parents would have cared for.

"Indeed, they can and often do" I replied mildly. They kind of have to, seeing as the ladies outnumber the men by a five to one ratio… likely a tad higher than that since the end of the Dissonance conflict.

I dedicated a moment of silence to honor the innumerable fallen. Too many had died that shouldn't have… _too many_.

Naturally, he extended this knowledge to myself, "Are you married to several women, Lord Zenith?"

I subconsciously began to thumb at the wedding band on my ring finger, "I am. And I love each and every one of them with all my heart" God, how I missed them already… and it was an ache that would only grow keener with time. I knew this from experience.

The boy seemed as if he wanted to speak more, but then the redheaded girl in the cart moaned and shifted in her sleep, as if she were struggling to awaken from a nightmare. I would help her with that, but engaging in dreamwalking in plain sight of people who already suspected me of being _different_ would be counterproductive to my aims. So I immediately calmed her with another covert application of magic that broke down the amount of cortisol in her blood and decreased wakeful brain activity. It wouldn't matter how badly she wanted to wake in her head, her body would tell her no. I was a shade relieved that she could resist the spell keeping her asleep, as it bespoke of a strong Will. Gradually though, she stopped squirming and slid back into the _world that never was_ , as some of the Cervidians call dreamland.

"She has the Black Tongue, I know it. How else could she have a Snow Bear as a mount?" Joran hissed with nigh superstitious fervor as he looked on her with hatred, and some fear, "Bears have pride. They wouldn't allow themselves to be dominated unless it was by foul means. Skinchangers aren't natural, else the Old Gods would have us all be like them"

"One of the astounding arrogances of man, is to presume to know the Will of the Divine" I quoted an old, immortal man I knew once, a curmudgeonly Cervidian with a rare gift… and rarer lifespan. A Farseer, they called him, and yet I found him to be rather arrogant himself in a lot of respects. He respected Celestia, despised Luna, and was ambivalent to me. Succinctly put, he was the type of person to notice when you didn't bring flowers, only a male.

A story for another day.

Before he could respond to that, his father had circled about from the head of the column and called out to him, "Joran! Leave our mysterious guest in peace. I'm sure that your ceaseless questioning is beginning to wear on him"

"But father!" Joran protested.

Lord Jorgan would have none of it, " _Now_ , my son"

The bear cub groaned and went, sulking in his saddle all the while, his lordly father sparing me a wary glance and a distrusting one towards my 'ward' before snorting to himself (not unlike his ursine sigil) and trotting back to the head of the column. I was sort of miffed about how presumptuous Lord Jorgan had been in dismissing him for me, seeing as I actually encouraged kids with inquisitive minds to always seek the truth of the world around them… and in this unparalleled case, the worlds _beyond them_. I could read between the lines though. He might have a type of truce with me, but he was being cautious with his son and heir being around an unknown variable. Mormont was in a bit of a pickle over how to treat with me. He owed me for saving his life, as well as aiding his people against the raiders, disapproved of how I claimed guardianship over the girl that had tried to kill him, and likely knew that using his lordly authority to command me to do anything was a risk not worth taking.

Oh well, at least I had some peace and quiet to myself.

"So, what's stoppin' your wives from fightin' each other over who gets their turn with yah in the bed chamber?" A gruff fellow shouldering a bloodstained axe decided to take the lordling's place as inquisitor.

I sighed long-sufferingly. Explaining intra-harem dynamics to an armsman of House Mormont was not something I saw myself doing when I had awoken that day.

⁂

We trekked many miles and for many hours (they didn't have a numerical clock system for gauging the time, instead naming each hour from the start of sunrise for an animal, like the hour of the lark; though the hour of the ghost is an exception) before we were in sight of Bear Claw Bay. It was partway through the hour of the Pike (the fish, not the weapon), and the sun was close to dipping beneath the horizon, casting orange-gold rays across a leaden gray sky. It was relatively nippy in the air and snow still occasionally crunched underneath our feet, but I was beginning to believe that it was the outset of summer, which lasted for _years_ in this world. It was a challenging concept to wrap one's mind around, but easier to comprehend than everlasting night, or everlasting day… both would render the world near lifeless if it persisted for years. Wherever they stored food away for wintertime must've been massive for places with higher population… or perhaps lazier Lords let their peasantry tough it out and wound up with reduced population by winter's end.

From what I could tell of this island based on peering into human life signatures with my 'special insight', there were scarcely greater than three and a half thousand people dwelling upon it, with two thirds of that population being focused in Bear Claw Bay and the rest scattered along the beaches of Bear Island in small coastal villages like the one I had helped defend against the raiders. It was curious how Jorgan and his men were already lying in wait for their enemy when they were, but the warriors told me their Lord was just making his rounds with his armed retinue as usual, and that a hiking woodsman and his son spotted them from afar and sounded the alarm. Had they not been there, then it was likely that the fishing village would have been a burnt out, depopulated husk within the hour. In spite of their shared wariness of me, the men and women begrudgingly thanked me for my intervention in their battle, citing how only one of the carts was filled with their dead when it could have patently been two or three.

I frowned at that, my inner problem solver cooking up plots and plans to deprive future raiders of the critical element of surprise, which was the one reason, I was informed, that their raids were such a pervasive issue here. There were decent vantage points on this rock, with others higher up requiring a taming of the dense forest growth. Semaphore towers didn't rely on chance, and with some additional time to prepare on the inhabitants' part, timely interventions on _my_ part would be largely unnecessary. Though on a sparsely peopled island with a medieval level of infrastructure, this would be a challenging pitch to sell _after_ I had securely established firm relations with the Mormonts. Food for thought, I guess.

Despite it now being the summer, as confirmed by my unkempt but decently agreeable companions when I inquired about it, the average temperature on Bear Island stubbornly remained in the low fifties in Fahrenheit degrees, and I imagined that it dropped sharply below zero during the winter. Even now, powdery sheets of snow blanketed the ground and turned into a slurry mush as both feet and cartwheel mashed it into the earth, impeding any dreams of swift movement. This island was in desperate need of weather resistant roads. Coupled with hostile neighbors to the north and a fair distance from the mainland, it was a small wonder why this island was barely inhabited by man.

As we entered the main village, I was instantly struck by how incredibly similar it was to a Norse styled village by the sea. An overwhelming majority of the buildings were made with wooden logs with crossed timber beams carved in the shape of bears for well to do families, or were primitive wattle and daub huts with the thatch roofs for the others. There were a smattering of houses built with sturdy stone blocks mortared with mud and covered over with natural sod roofing, but they were built into the hills leading inland and were exceedingly few. There were one or two open hut smithies in play, but the equipment being used there was rudimentary, like dried earth kilns or stone and clay bloomery furnaces. Heck, it was difficult to imagine they had much iron ore to work with in the first place, though most all of Lord Mormont's warriors had iron weapons and bits and pieces of armor. Quays made of aging wooded planks jutted into the watery 'claws' of the bay. Small fishing boats with tattered sails moored to them clanked against each other steadily as they bobbed on the water's inky black surface, though there were half a dozen Knarr longship style boats for speedy transport or warfare.

As for the populace; dirty children played with sticks and flung mud at each other while their mothers shouted after them to be careful when they were not stirring outdoor communal cooking pots brimming with fish stew. Goats or livestock as hardy as their owners bleated and nibbled at feed troughs of hay or were being milked by bored looking tweens. Old men (some of them were missing fingers, limbs, or wearing eye patches) sat on benches talking boisterously or watching the day's happenings terminate before they noticed the procession of warriors trailing on by. The grizzled coots spat on the ground when they saw that we brought back wildling prisoners that they must have regularly contended with when they were of fighting age themselves. Word spread like wildfire (heh) of the unwelcome arrivals and the children were recalled by their protective mothers and dragged indoors. Adults emerged and jeered and hurled insults or pelleted goat shit at the captives, with the wildlings cursing them back in their foreign, primitive sounding old tongue. Their guards did not prevent the harassment of their prisoners, but they did discourage anyone from getting too close, in case they had the idea of taking justice into their own hands.

' _Man, I used to think that Magiville had an ol'timey vibe, but at least it had a quaint, countryside charm to it_ ' I thought to myself. I doubted the roofs here were nearly as waterproofed, or snowproofed either.

Lord Mormont notified his people about the morning's victory over the Wildlings (to the cheers of many) and gave the order for the majority of the column to disperse and return to their loved ones, many of whom were already in the process of fussing over them, or quietly mourning when they spotted someone they knew in the cart of the dead. The absence of wailing or cries of dismay further illustrated how emotionally resilient these people were, for all the pain and rage in their eyes. I was glad of it. The screams of despair when my countrywomen learned of their husbands' deaths in the great struggle still occasionally plagued my dreams now and then. I shook my head, and before my ward and I became crowded by emotionally distressed Bear Islanders, proactively slung the girl over my shoulder and applied a harmless Don't-Mind-Me charm to her that acted as a perception filter. Nobody in the village besides those who knew of her would pay prolonged attention to the only wildling that was not bound and guarded zealously. I noted that Lord Mormont had not explicitly told his people about his unspoken 'deal' with me, and probably had no qualms with testing me with my safekeeping skills.

More fool him. I could do this without magic if I felt like it.

"Milord Zenith?" One of Mormont's main retinue of warriors approached me, pausing only to cast a vaguely confused glance towards my still slumbering cargo, "Lord Mormont requests that you accompany us to the Keep. It will be time to dispense the lord's justice in the Godswood, ere the hour of the Raven"

Must be sometime in the next thirty minutes then, I ventured. Said soon-to-be-recipients of the lord's justice had been wrangled through the hissing crowds and on to the Lord's Keep.

I resisted an aggrieved sigh, "I am not a lord… but lead on"

The man gave me a respectful nod (must be one of the warriors grateful for my assistance) and did so, the villagers making way for one of their own. I stayed close on his heels, ignoring the men and women gawking at my elaborate and deceptively showy robes. We joined a group of men shadowing the Lord of Bear Island and his heir, both of whom had dismounted and handed the reins to their attendant stable boys. Mormont's household guard numbered less than sixty, but each of those warriors left little question as to their ability to protect their lord (his near mauling by Snow Bear notwithstanding), being armed and armored to the highest degree by local standards. The gruff man wearily motioned for the man shepherding me through the gaggle to bring me to him as we climbed an incline leading to the Mormont Keep, which I could tell from this distance was not a castle, hardly even a motte really. The Mormonts may not have been the wealthiest of Noble families, but they should at least have a truly defensible home. I could aid them with renovations, but I wouldn't want to play my full hand too soon.

As we got closer, further details made themselves known to me. The placement of the Keep was not far from the harbor where the longships were moored. Its barebones defenses included circular earthen mounds and a wooden palisade wall (which looked like it had seen better days) that enclosed it and would withstand… maybe a few hours of a serious siege from manpower alone. I espied no fewer than a dozen weakpoints that could be exploited to raze this place sooner than that. In spite of this, for what it lacked in adequate defenses, it made up for in charm. The fine graven image of a northern woman clad in a bearskin with a newborn babe suckling at her bared breast in one arm while clutching a one handed battleaxe in the other was an apt artistic description of how both the men and women of this island defended their abode while continuing to live life.

"And what do you think of my humble home, Zenith?" Asked Lord Mormont, who noticed my critical eye absorbing information and processing it.

"Humble as you say," I demurred from insulting my host's pitiful domicile, "but a home regardless"

He snorted, seeing through my deflective courtesy, "No doubt you've visited majestic holdfasts that make ours seem like the hovel it is" There was self deprecation there, but it was plain that the man was being jocose.

' _You have no idea_ ' I thought wryly.

"I have" I affirmed neutrally, and the conversation ceased from there.

The lookouts on the rudimentary battlements signaled from the wall walks for the gate to be opened, revealing a smoky wooden longhouse, which was the biggest manmade structure on the island and composed of huge logs. It had three stories, was two hundred and fifty feet long and thirty feet wide or thereabouts, had intersecting A frames carved into snarling bear heads, and had three slits in the roof that acted as chimneys, which was evidenced by a triad of thick smoke streams. The Godswood was to the rear of the Keep's perimeter, and barely larger than a bunch of trees if it could fit within the palisade wall, though those trees that were present were all impressively vibrant and tall. My higher senses were picking up on something faint there however, which I deduced to be the Weirwood the prisoners were so keen on dying at the roots of.

"My son and I would pray before we deal with our captives" Lord Mormont announced to his men when we halted in the 'courtyard', "Those who wish to join us may do so"

Only a trio of men opted not to, choosing to see to their wounded friends in the outer village or relate news of the battle to kith and kin now that their lord had effectively dismissed them. The rest of us had ambled over to the Keep's sacred site, our ill mannered _guests_ not as ornery as usual once they spotted the crimson red leaves of the Weirwood they held sacrosanct. I had been right about the Godswood being tiny, as it was around the same size as the copse of trees used as the waypoint for Pickett's Charge at Gettysburg. Pine trees towered around the squat Weirwood like disciples standing before a sitting soothsayer at a respectful distance. That sensation tugging at the periphery of my higher senses shot up once I focused my total attention on the otherwise unassuming, bone white (whiter than any Birch) tree, its stern face constantly vigilant.

It had _resonance_.

Explaining what resonance was and how it related to magic and the practice of thaumaturgy was no elementary task. I was no scholar of the Arcane, but in how I understood it, an object with thaumatic resonance was much more conducive to facilitating the flow and operation of magic than an item without resonance, and this difference was extremely distinct in low magic worlds or those with 'complicated' leylines, like this one. That only covered about ten percent of what it meant to have resonance, but it sufficed for your average layman. I would have to get into contact with this specimen to ascertain the complete extent of it, but I could extrapolate from my book knowledge that each living Weirwood was connected to one another through the leylines in some kind of vast network, with each Weirwood tree acting as a server for collecting and storing data in their wooden body, ready to be accessed via the roots by those that knew how to. Like the enigmatic Children of the Forest.

Simply put, it was naturally occurring cloud storage.

I was tempted to call it the Weir-Net.

As for why the Weirwood would need a face? Well, that is where the general weirdness of magic came into play. Concepts, symbols, conventions, and appellations have power, especially where magic is considered. Many of the organs for sensory perception for bipedal species were located where the head would be. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth… many of these features would display prominently on a face. As nonhuman as the Children of the Forest were, they weren't _that_ alien by most standards. By carving faces into the Weirwoods with the belief that the Weirwoods would do their surveillance for them, they funneled the trees' resonance into that purpose. To those who were not so inclined, the inherent resonance of the Weirwood would manifest itself as a 'hairs prickling on the back of your neck, we are being watched' apprehension that was not far from the truth. When one factored this into the religion involving the Old Gods, it made sense. These people revered the Weirwoods, seeing the face of their deities whenever they peered into those eerie carvings. They performed their weddings in front of them, swore solemn oaths under the weight of their gaze, and prayed at their roots like their countless ancestors had in the past.

Just as the Mormonts, their men, and the prisoners were doing now. Blood of the First Men… all of them.

I deposited the girl I had been lugging in a crook between two pines and obscured her from unwanted scrutiny with a whispered veiling incantation of ' _Umbra_ ', before I waited patiently for the people to finish their heathen worship. And no, I was not being biased or bigoted by thinking that. These people really were revering a tree, a magical tree granted, but a tree none the less. I maintained close working relationships with beings that could pass for Old Gods given form in this world, and they would be mystified by this behavior. Well, Gaia might approve of it, but only because she would rather have people honoring the greenery of the world than _burning_ it.

Mormont's men were not stupid, despite their prayers and the prayers of their prisoners, there were always one or two guardsmen prudently ensuring that their eyes were fixed upon them for any sudden movements. It need not have mattered, as the prisoners themselves were as docile as newborn lambs, murmuring quietly to themselves with their heads bowed low. A serene series of minutes passed like that. Lordling Joran seemed to have gotten his prayers over with early, and his body was showing signs of bored tension as his elders showed no signs of stopping, which brought a grin to my face. I used to be just the same, keeping my prayers short, sweet, and simple… whereas my parents and grandparents composed prayers of gratitude, supplication, and well wishing that could fill some movie scripts with their length, so I knew exactly how the young bear cub felt. I'd offer a concise prayer myself, but I didn't want these Northmen to get the wrong ideas about me.

"It is time" Lord Mormont announced, as he rose from his kneeling position and turned about to address his people, "Men of the North, my Kinsmen. As you well know, it is the Lord's duty to keep the peace in his lands, hear the petitions of his folk, and administer justice in the name of the King where justice requires it" He paused as he looked at his prisoners, his face as stonily stern as that of the Weirwood's. Likewise, the dirty, foul smelling prisoners looked back, their expressions vacant of emotion. They were either at peace with their impending deaths after communing with their gods, or were hiding it masterfully. Even the scrawny bearded man who had manically requested that they be executed before the Weirwood was as calm as could be.

They had seemingly consigned themselves to death.

"Engrom" One of his men snapped to attention, "Fetch me the block"

With an uttered 'Milord', the seasoned man did so, bringing a better suited headsman's block, along with a bearded axe. It was a professional one, with smooth, _relatively clean_ wood and an indention shaped like a half bowl to lay one's head and give the headsman an indicator of where to swing, instead of being a repurposed, bloody tree stump. Although… the sight of it brought with it unpleasant memories of my time in Gryphondria with it. I had seen and caused enough death to last me several lifetimes, and I doubted that unfortunate necessity would cease anytime soon. The roots of the Weirwood were as thick as a man's arm and pervasive besides, so finding a spot to insert the block proved to be a bit of a challenge for Engrom, but after some fumbling about, he managed. The group formed a half circle about the chosen position while Jorgan balanced himself at the base of his Keep's Sacred Tree.

Lord Mormont motioned for me to come closer, and I obliged, "The condemned are six, a fortunate number for my purposes" He spoke low to me, as if he were confiding in me. I stood by for him to elaborate, "One day my son will be the Lord of Bear Island, and if it had not been for you, he would be already. I would be a poor lord and father indeed to neglect teaching him how he is to perform his future duties, which is why he will be a part of carrying out the executions. I shall begin with the first two, you the next, and Joran will be after you"

' _Must suppress… urge to criticize_ ' I policed my impulses. Children had to grow up faster in this backwater world, and lordly brats were no exception.

I arched a brow, "You're including your son in this?" Lord Mormont nodded, "Can he wield that axe deftly? Any execution that mandates another stroke is bad form" Not to mention messy and gruesome for the executed.

"I'll admit that he's a finer hand with a sword than an axe," Mormont confessed, "but he's not so strong as to claim a head with sword edge alone yet. The axe will have to do" This time he arched a brow, "Unless you would volunteer that fancy sword of yours?" He probed.

"Its name is _Dichotomy_ " I informed him coolly, "And it's done shedding blood for the day"

He did not seem surprised by that, "All of the memorable weapons have names, though I know not the meaning of yours"

"Why not use Longclaw?" I temporized, diverting the subject from my Mage-blade, "Surely Valyrian Steel is the superior option to an iron axe?"

He shook his head and snorted, "My ancestors never sullied our House's one treasure with mundane functions such as executions, and nor will I. You must understand that exceedingly few Northern Houses have Valyrian Steel in their possession, so they are not to be used lightly. A scion from my line earned it during honorable service in Essos and used it to defend his House centuries ago… and House Mormont has valued it since"

"Alright. Why discuss this with me without your son present for it?" I frowned, "In fact, why are you making me party to this at all? It is not that I am incapable. I'm merely curious, is all"

"I already spoke with Joran about his role here on the return journey" He answered, "As for the other question…" He gathered his thoughts, "As you may know, you have made quite the impression on my people, Zenith. Word is doubtlessly spreading like a hungry flame among the village as of now. Many will speak of your prowess as a warrior, and how I owe my life to you as a testament to it" He gave me a thankful nod, "But there are also those who will speak to how I granted you the life of that wildling girl as a boon, which many here will not approve of. Wildlings and Ironborn both have plagued the people of this island for innumerable years, with the frigid Winter being our only respite from that, and a niggardly, fickle one at that. By extending you a role in the Lord's duty of dispensing justice to the other wildling prisoners, I am assuring my people that you are not in favor of their enemy, and that I welcome you among my people as a guest, instead of a foreigner to mistrust"

I could accept that at face value. There were worse reactions to my intervention in the places the Mirror sent me to.

And make no mistake… I would not be here if not for a reason or ten.

"Are you familiar with the ceremonies of formal executions? How are they conducted where you are from?" Mormont inquired of me.

"Intimately" I affirmed monotonously, "I must state their crimes, the fact that they were witnessed by several people as to be irrefutable, sentence them to death by invoking the name and authority of the local lord and the kingdom's ruler, hear their final words, and then off goes their head" That's how it went in Gryphondria… the civilized areas anyway.

"Similar to ours" Those discerning eyes of his fixed pointedly on me, "You've done this before?"

"I've witnessed it enough times to practically be an expert" I responded with a tired tone. If only I had known what was in store for me across the Sea of Tranquility.

Much could have been different.

He must've deduced that it was a sensitive topic for me and let it be, for he moved on, "I would not have my son spill a woman's blood unless there were no other choice. I shall lead with the skinny one who requested this penultimate honor, and the spearwife with the wine stain birthmark on her brow. You shall follow after with the reedy man and the woman with the wild eyes. My boy will have the rest for himself"

So it was agreed upon. The thin man whose frantic request led to this occasion was untied by his guards and came forward, willingly bending down and gripping his hands at the corners of the chopping block.

Lord Mormont peeled off his weathered, tattered gloves, handed them over to Engrom, took up the axe and hefted it over his shoulder as he stood over the soon to be departed, "In the name of King Torrhen Stark, the King of the North and the First Men, by word and authority of Jorgan of House Mormont, find you unequivocally guilty of the crime of raiding with the intent to cause harm to the people of Bear Island as was witnessed by myself and my warriors. I do hereby sentence you to death for this crime. Have you any last words?" He asked, sparing me a calculated glance.

Was he pandering to me by granting a dead man something for the world to remember him by?

The convicted angled his head to look Jorgan in the eyes, in a state of serenity with himself, "I shall go to the Gods a free man, Mormont. Will you be able to say the same when your time comes?"

"I suppose not" Mormont conceded, "But there is honor in serving a good King"

And with that he lopped the man's noggin off with a single stroke, the severed head bouncing to the feet of the prisoners, who stared at it with faces like carved stone. Blood issued forth in spurts, staining the bony roots of the Weirwood a winey red. The lifeblood soaked into the earth and absorbed rapidly… and a curious thing happened.

The Weirwood's resonance profile skyrocketed. Whereas before its magical 'luminosity' was like that of a two watt light bulb, which I would have only noticed in similar environment back home by focusing on it, now it was the magical equivalent of an LED light.

' _So it is true then. Blood is a distinct locus for thaumatic output in this world, particularly blood that is divested in an act of sacrifice… and not solely the selfless kind_ ' I hummed thoughtfully to myself.

The implications of this fact were… troublesome. While these people lacked the means to proactively use magic under their own abilities, blood magic (and this was undoubtedly a form of blood magic) had no such restrictions. All that was needed for the realization of a deliberate outcome though magic (called thaumaturgy) was intent, a means to fuel the realization, and a mould, or spell, (which could be composed in numerous ways) to shape that intent. From what I could determine though, the Weirwood already had the alpha and omega requirements going on. By drinking in the sacrificed blood, the tree's connection to the Weir-Net was strengthened considerably… and it was about to receive more as Mormont prepared to decapitate the woman with the wine stain birthmark. Preoccupied as I was with my ruminations, I had tuned out her valedictory words (there was embittered swearing involved, that I could recall) as the axe went 'snicker-snack!' and the Weirwood's resonance consequently got 'brighter' to my preternatural sight.

Lord Mormont wiped down the excess blood on the blade of the axe with a cloth before handing it off to me. A straw haired, lean, stick figure of a man hugged the chopping block with a muttered "Don' got no last words", either ignorant or uncaring that those were indeed his last words. I shrugged to myself, repeated Lord Mormont's pre-execution speech with minor modifications, namely the inclusion of myself into the wording. The man's head came free of his shoulders with less effort than it took to blink my eyelids. Curiously, the Weirwood's arcane luminosity grew no further, hinting at its maximum threshold. An Arcane Threshold was the capacity that denoted how potent a spell was. A high threshold indicated a spell that needed plenty of fuel, or mana as I preferred, to accomplish great feats, while a tiny threshold was usually the opposite.

Six liters of human blood was on the low end for a threshold (there's a reason why any notable blood magic is infamous on any world it exists in), so whatever spell that comprised the pre-established Weir-Net connection was either absurdly efficient, or it was so weak that additional blood at this point would only increase the spell's effective duration. It struck me then that the Northerners of old might have known that the Weirwoods were favorably receptive to adjacent exsanguination, and by extension the Children of the Forest who revered these trees possibly expressed gratitude for the 'donations' of blood magic by doing something favorable in the vicinity of the site, like arranging favorable crop yields and such. A Heart Tree was typically at the center of a godswood, and the godswood here was luxuriant, if a tad small. A lot of light was shed on the relationship these Northerners had with their Old Gods from these well reasoned suppositions as I mechanically recited lines, ignored the baleful eyes of the captive, doomed woman glaring up at me and spitting out curses, and ended yet another life with the same technique that a person would use to split wood. When one had the thew that I did, the motions themselves were for theatrics anyways.

What could have convinced the First Men to abandon the gods of their Essosi forefathers when they migrated to Westeros? Perhaps, unlike themselves, the Children of the Forest had power of their own through their nameless gods of stone, dirt, and tree, and by association, through their precious bone white Weirwoods. According to legend, when the First Men arrived on the continent and began building strongholds and farmlands to support themselves, they had also cut down and burned many of the Weirwoods, triggering a war between the two peoples. The Children of the Forest had powerful magic on their side; the First men had bronze weapons and sheer weight of numbers on theirs. In a war of attrition, any side that has to constantly shed blood to fuel spells that have limited effect is a losing proposition, so the Children and First Men settled for a truce known as the Pact. Peace never endures forever though, as evidenced by the fact that men held sway over Westeros, while the Children of the Forest were largely relegated to myth and stories used to frighten children at bedtime.

All of this I pondered on the ramifications of as young Joran looked conflicted with himself as his turn came… either that or something he ate disagreed with him. It appeared that he had never participated in these bloody affairs in the past, given his reluctance. Ah, pure hearted medieval youth; so quick to smile at the prospect of earning glory and respect in honorable battle, less eager when it came to killing those that could not fight back, even when they were Free Folk raiders who likely had no qualms with doing the same. Struggling with these moral quandaries that could plague so many heroes that sometimes they even became their hamartia was nothing new. The remaining prisoners were as emotionally and physically subdued as could be. Heck, it was entirely juxtaposed to their executioner's inner conflict. Lord Mormont anticipated this, though from the mild scowl on his face, I imagine he was doing his damnedest to suppress his disapproval or disappointment.

"This… doesn't feel right, father" Joran muttered quietly, so that only his father and my enhanced hearing could detect it, "I know that they deserve death for what they did… but why must I be the one to kill them like this? Why cannot you or Lord Zenith do it?"

Jorgan Mormont placed a firm hand on his offspring's shoulder, "My son, one day you shall be the Lord of Bear Island, and that honor comes with responsibilities that cannot be shirked or shied away from. One of the traditions that make us different from our neighbors in the south is that we believe that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If a Lord cannot bring himself to do so with those who have violated the laws of Gods and Men, then how can his people rely on him to safeguard them, or give them Justice?"

Joran wasn't all that reassured, but he composed himself, "I-… I understand, father. I'll do it"

I repeated the process of cleaning the axe blade with the cloth, thoroughly saturating it as I surreptitiously honed the tool's edge with a spell that I offset the mana cost of by supplementing it with trace amounts of leftover blood magic, "It's easier than it seems, young Mormont. Blade is so sharp it does most of the work for you. Just line it up with the neck and put your back into the swing" I offered my two cents.

"You had the look of a man in deep thought, Zenith, though it obviously did not affect the preciseness of your aim" Jorgan complimented me with a measuring appraisal on his gruff face.

"My strokes go where I mean them to" I replied, before presenting the long handle of the axe to the lordling, who eyed it like one would with a giant cobra, "See to it that yours goes where you mean it to" I advised the lad.

He yielded and took it with both hands, frowning at the weight and different balance of it. He gave it a few practice swings at an invisible target before he nodded to Engrom, who had the next prisoner, one with a scraggly face, stare at the ground. The axe had been wrought of low-ish quality iron, so I transmuted the metals about the edge into high carbon steel to better preserve its keenness. Joran could screw the pooch with his swing and it would still be sufficient to kill instantly. Speaking of, the lordling lined up his blade while simultaneously invoking both his King and Lordly Father's authority, when the scraggly man refused to speak his final words, Joran brought the axe down with a (sorta boyish) yell. He put a bit too much oomph into it, as the newly improved axe bit into the wood of the chopping block, neatly severing the second to last captive's head from his neck, the blood that wasn't sinking into the earth running in rivulets down the base of the Weirwood. The gathered men were suitably impressed as they chuckled in good humor, perchance thinking their future lord would be a brawny one.

Once the axe was freed with a bit of elbow grease, this was repeated and Bear Island was free of Free Folk save for one special exception. Lord Mormont gave a speech congratulating his men on their shared victory that morning and announced that the larders were to be opened for a hard won night of feasting and drinking in welcome to a guest that had made it possible with as few casualties as could be, much to the cheers of the men. One of them had the chutzpah to casually slap me on the back, grimacing to himself when the action upset his palm more than it did me. I was certain that this was Lord Mormont again demonstrating his political savvy. By hosting a feast in his ancestral hall to honor a man that had saved his life, he both rewarded his men for their efforts and made them amenable to my presence by loosening their leeriness with food and drink.

Not to mention that by extending their sacred tradition of Guest Right to me, he solidified peaceful relations between him and me.

Damn the man. He made it such that if I refused him, it would make me the bad guy in front of his people. From the renewed vigor of the men inside the keep's premises, events like feasts cannot have been a common occurrence, especially as winter had only recently concluded. I suppose I should have been flattered, but I had attended too many feasts that were hosted under false pretenses, not that I would believe these stiff yet honorable island Northerners to be willingly capable of such. Plus there was still the matter of how to keep my 'ward' safe in the meanwhile. I would not attend the feast without her in my direct sight, and alcohol had the tendency to make people do stupid, rash things that they otherwise would not normally do. Of course, anyone who tried anything would regret it immediately, but then there would be further friction between these people and myself, which was drama that I did not need. Not before I had a superior position from which to make decisions about my 'stay' here.

I was so preoccupied with fretting over the little things that I nearly forgot about the Weirwood. I dismissed Lord Mormont as he apologized about not being able to show me about his home, assigned Engrom (who was on track to be the succeeding Captain of the Household Guard) to be my tour guide slash minder, and promptly left to personally visit the families of those Bear Islanders who had perished in the raid to deliver his condolences. I respected him for that endmost part. Too often the families of the fallen lost their kin without even a notification offering apologies or a eulogy thanking them for their sacrifice. Albeit, I doubted that a Northern Lord of such a sparsely populated island could get away with that type of negligence, doubly so on one where everyone lived in close vicinity and knew everybody else.

There were people I still had not had the chance to visit yet regarding the loss of their loved ones in battle alone.

"My lord, Zenith?" Engrom broke me out of my reflecting, "I am at your service."

I regarded him disinterestedly for a second. Engrom was one of the older hands in Mormont's Guard, although mid forties was probably considered a full life in a world with medieval life expectancies. Like the majority of men on the island, he had a beard, though his was unique in that it had reddish, braided twin tails. His hair was unkempt and drooped to his shoulders, but given that he had been in battle earlier, it could have been messier than it was. He was clad in furs, some mail, and boiled leather armor plates worn over a padded green gambeson jacket with the Mormont sigil borne on the breast. Quite the setup for a northerner, even a future Captain. I had not personally seen him fight, but I retained no uncertainty that he knew how to wield the arming sword sheathed at his hip.

"I was not born a Noble" I sighed forbearingly, "Just address me as Zenith, if you please"

"I cannot, my lord" He declined, "T'would not be proper for a man of your stature to be treated as anything besides nobility"

I was unimpressed, "Did Lord Mormont tell you to be an obsequious flatterer to me? Because unlike the foppish 'southrons', titles mean little and less to me"

He laughed heartily, "No milord, he did not. Still, I would not have an errant guest of my Lord Mormont be seen as some vagabond, nor see the people of the North as being all uncultured savages"

"Men can be cultured and still behave like savages" I countered, knowing this from experience, "Still, I appreciate the kindly gesture"

"Of course, My Lord" He nodded, "What would you have of me?"

"A few minutes alone" I answered, "There is something I must meditate on"

Confusion crossed the man's expression for a split fraction of a second, but he nodded in assent, "Very well. I shall be at the gates when you are finished, my Lord. It will be some time before my Lord Mormont's Hall is prepared, so I hope you can hold your hunger for a few hours"

I made a noncommittal grunt and waved him off, turning my attentions to the Weirwood, which was faintly thrumming to my arcane senses now that the blood had been absorbed by the roots and distributed via the tree's natural xylem pipeline. A goodly deal of that magic was concentrated in the 'eyes' of the tree. Eyes that were undeniably observing me with great interest… and trepidation, with tears of dark red trailing earthward on the bone white bark of the tree. I smiled flippantly at it before stepping within arm's reach of the wood and placing my bare hand upon it as I 'interfaced' with the Weir-Net, utilizing my own unbelievably vast pool of mana to expand on the connection and perceive everything, and I do mean everything. Many of my conjectures were confirmed as I scanned and analyzed the Weirwood, cataloging and recording all that made them what they were in the span of _milliseconds_. My discoveries were… enlightening, to say the least.

Trees (the non-sentient ones that is) had an objective sense of time, with everything that happened in the tree's lifetime condensed into a single happening. What made magical trees like these Weirwoods different, was that they could perceive future events as well as those that had occurred in the past. The clarity of these events was partially dependent on proximity, with events happening in view of the Weirwood's 'face' being the clearest and most coherent. But line of sight was not the extent of their awareness. Incredibly, the Weirwoods could glean information from the planet's leylines themselves, which I have only known five other deciduous species of magical tree to be capable of this feat, and none were quite so dichromatic. This outlying information was stored in the 'cloud network' that connected Weirwoods to each other in the past, present, and future, while events seen from the tree's face were mainly stored in the duramen (or heartwood), branches, and roots.

Interestingly, there were symbiotic mycorrhizae permeating the tree's tissues and extending down into the roots and beyond, linking to all the other trees in the diminutive godswood. These crisscrossing lines of mycorrhizae acted like a microcosmic version of a country's road network, with nutrients being transported and shared like trade caravans with their goods. The Weirwood itself was not photosynthetic, hence the consistent crimson red shade of its leaves, but instead seemed to act as an intermediate between nearby plants. Its blood-like sap contained a somewhat concentrated mixture of sugar and other nutrients that its fellow trees needed. The thick cocktail was sent between pines, oaks, and other plant species as needed, providing health and seasonal longevity throughout the whole godswood. Blood magic aside, it was a mind-blowingly _secular_ explanation for why these Weirwoods featured prominently as a godswood's Heart Tree. Supplements of nutrients via human sacrifice granted the tree additional nutrition as well as magical energies to support their linkage to the Weir-Net.

The Weir-Net itself, now that was a load of data that would take hundreds of minds thousands of years to pore over in depth. I was capable of accelerating the rate of processing, but it wasn't like I really cared about collating all of this mundane info right away, especially as I determined that I could access the Weir-Net whenever I wanted to peruse this stuff later. I 'narrowed' my search criteria to more recent events that could be of interest, anything that could provide useful context to base my decisions about what I should do in this world. The flash flood of images slowed to a steadier stream of recordings that kind of blended together; so repetitive was their nature. Conflict, winter, peace, conflict, winter, peace… on and on the cycle went throughout the continent. Not what I would deem as exciting or mission relevant stuff.

" _ **WHOOO AREEE YOUUU?**_ " A collection of echoing, wailing voices abruptly and metaphysically battered at me, attempting to brute force their way into my sphere of influence.

I disliked intruders, particularly the rude ones.

They were rebuffed with casual indifference. I have had _far scarier_ entities in my head, and I gave as good as I got then, if not better.

" _Not someone you should ever trifle with_ " I replied with a tone that promised _severe_ consequences if they tried intruding on me again.

The presence (although it was clear that it was not a singular being that was speaking) discerned the hidden message there and retreated, though I got the sense that this 'tête-à-tête' would resume in the future.

The slideshow continued, showing me the same old story and I was tempted to cut the connection when (rather conveniently), the scenery changed. It was a rough transition, to that of a small fleet of galleys and carracks on choppy waters. Normally, this would not be anything special, save for the fact that there were flying creatures that were unmistakably draconic in form soaring overhead. The symbols on the sails of the ships were difficult to make out, but they were in order: a featureless black, a silver seahorse on aquamarine, and red crabs on white. All was not well in this scene, however, as a monumental storm was brewing in the skies with a frightening rapidity and sheer wrath that I had only seen occur in the ironically and yet aptly named Sea of Tranquility. Gale force winds ripped at the sailing vessels as waves grew taller and taller, and worse and worse. One unfortunate vessel was struck so hard by one that it capsized, throwing screaming men overboard into the drink.

It was not the last ship to suffer such a fate.

Lightning bolts shot from the clouds with such frequency and intensity that a superstitious Greek of the ancient world would posit that Zeus was throwing a legendary hissy fit if they could see this. The dragons in the air shrieked and flew erratically as they desperately zigzagged to avoid the instantaneous, lethal obstacles. It was for naught though, as a large, mean looking black one ended up getting grazed by one. It roared in pain and rage with such amplitude that it even cut through the muted haze that affected most scenes viewed from the Weir-Net. A shadowy figure, which I barely made out from my 'vantage point', detached itself from the wounded beast, falling hundreds of feet before being swallowed up by the ocean.

Another dragon, this one a rust colored creature, dove after the fallen figure and skimmed the surface, although this ultimately proved to be a futile gesture, and a potentially fatal one, as a megalithic wave inevitably slammed into it. The scaly creature screeched before the waters sweeping it away drowned the racket out. The black one, though injured from the brush with lightning, flew higher, disappearing into the clouds that were even darker than it. The tragic scene ended with the remaining silvery dragon despondently escorting the tattered remnants of the fleet through the sound and fury towards the landmass on the horizon… alone. It faded as I cut the connection I had with the Weir-Net, returning to the jarring serenity of the godswood.

Mayhaps fittingly, the Weirwood's face was 'bleeding' from every orifice now.

' _Well… this definitely changes things_ ' I opined dryly to myself.


	3. A Wayward Wizard heads South

A Wayward Wizard heads South

' _What was that saying about butterflies and hurricanes?_ ' I idly mused to myself, though my mind was awhirl with thoughts. It would take a big frakkin' butterfly to bring about the game changing event I had presently witnessed.

The history of this world as I knew it from memory had just been sundered in one fell swoop. It was… a deviation with an abundance of negative and positive connotations that eminently stood out. What could have triggered this change?

Then it came to me like a bolt out of the blue. **I was the butterfly!** My very arrival here had inevitably caused some _serious_ ripples in the timeline, and my actions even more so. Jorgan Mormont would have been slated for death (and likely the Warg girl that I had taken as a ward too) were it not for my intervention, and who knows how many other Bear Islanders were spared a similar fate because of me. It hadn't been the first time something like this had occurred, and if prior experience proved true, it wouldn't be the last. In worlds that were subject to a stringent system of fate, even minor changes could herald one of two typical results: either a string of divergences would follow that sent the world's set 'narrative script' spiraling out of control like a yoyo slipping from the finger of a particularly energetic kid in the middle of an _around the world_ … or an adverse reaction would manifest itself as the fate system attempts to 'restore balance', usually by eliminating the culprit responsible, irrespective of their relative innocence.

Guess which one I was betting on, given the chosen world that I now found myself an unwilling participant in.

I would have to adjust for this drastic change in circumstances, even should I decide to keep my 'well-intentioned meddling' to a minimum. If the would be Conqueror's fateful crossing had not met with disaster, he would have eventually founded a city where he landed, dominated the vast majority of the continent with the fiery help of his dragons, and placed it under his rule, thus establishing a dynasty that would endure for centuries. As things were now, it was likelier that Westeros would remain divided and hostile to itself, like the warring states of China. It was a status quo that was broken only by the dragons, and their culturally **sequestered** Valyrian riders. The ancient rivalries broiling between the petty kingdoms ran contrary to the process of unification. If they did not unify themselves after centuries upon centuries of internecine warfare and winter, then they sure were not going to clasp hands _now_ of all times. This was especially detrimental if the threat that might or might not be dormant to the far north was about to make a comeback tour of the world.

To quote a famous American President: 'A house divided against itself cannot stand'. Conversely, this continent did not have a serious slavery issue, which was one of the few progressive features it had going for it. Essos, on the other hand, well… the less said anent their libertarian backwardness, the better.

' _At least I got a decent cueing to work with_ ' I thought sardonically to myself. Though it might be prudent for me to double check the facts.

I reviewed the event in my mind's eye with eidetic clarity, taking care to search for any details that could have slipped my notice. It had been a chaotic scene at sea, rife with fear, despair, and death. Stormy winds so stiff and unrelenting in their fury that ship mainmasts had snapped like twigs and were felled like timbers, their sails mid-reefed and acting as funeral shrouds for the unfortunate sailors that were felled with them. Boats were slammed into each other by the churning waters like they were errant bumper cars; splintering oars, shattering handrails, and catapulting anguished men into the malevolent depths to drown. The waves were so high that they engulfed the smaller galleys in a single sweep, leaving nothing but flotsam and carnage in their wake. A great black winged beast, its lordly rider pelted with freezing rain, sampling lightning and finding it not to its taste. The collateral damage from the strike inflicting keraunoparalysis and sending an ill-fated passenger plummeting from the saddle to be swallowed up by the sea. The infamous Black Dread fled into the clouds, retreating northeast if my arcane reckoning of the sun's position and landmass were correct. A woman's scream of despair so high pitched and primal that it may as well have been emanating from her draconic mount. A foolhardy dive borne out of love and desperation, only to be rewarded with unforgiving water, both rider and mount devoured by the roiling waves. Solely one dragonrider was left physically unscathed, leading a badly mauled fleet towards the coastline, alone and forlorn.

There would be consequences to this calamity, the ramifications of which would give even seasoned farseers back home considerable headaches to comprehend if they knew the context like I did.

But where others would see merely disaster and despair, I saw… an _opportunity_. As one oleaginous mockingbird would have put it in another iteration of this world's story, 'Chaos is a ladder'. Fortunately for the people of this biosphere, I was not an entirely self-serving prick like littledick.

I had to salvage this kludging of the timeline somehow. This continent needed unity and a strong guiding hand, not these squabbling factions fighting over what were essentially long-established scraps of land like rabid dogs at the dinner table. For all the arrogance and hotheadedness that would have plagued their line, the Targaryens proved that a Westeros even loosely banded together into a single kingdom proved greater than the sum of its parts. To say nothing of the enemy of life lurking in the frigid reaches of the Lands of Always Winter. That's what made the War of Five Kings in the books such an infuriating event to me. Here was a veritable army of the undead marching on the Wall aiming to cull everybody and their neighbor and the Westerosi were happily killing each other for them over an ugly ass highchair… all for the sake of power, for power's sake.

United they might have stood a chance of prevailing, however slim it could have been against so mysterious and half forgotten a foe. Divided, they were all but guaranteed to fall… and allow unending night to descend upon the world.

And they chose the latter.

It struck too damn close to home for me. Sempiternal cold and darkness would be the death of this world, just as surely as it would have been for mine.

' _And here I was hoping that my reason for being stolen away to this backasswards place was going to be something subtle or simple to solve. How silly of me_ ' I groused… only the easiest assignments for me.

I detached my blank, brooding stare from the still bleeding, stern visage of the Weirwood's face and returned to the magically obscured crook that I made my ward's hideyhole from hostile eyes. I immediately dispersed the incanted spell with a carefree ease that only the truly adept spellcasters could aspire to, but was second nature to me. The young woman that was 'Kissed by fire', if I recalled, was in the same state as I had left her in, breathing steadily in the throes of thaumaturgically enforced sleep. No surprise there. If I was to do anything about the situation that would be brewing in the south, I could afford no burdens weighing me down now. The question here was whether to cut this especial 'burden' loose or take it with me. Her life might seem paltry compared to millions of others, but _all life_ mattered to me.

I certainly could not leave her here. The Bear Islanders were obligated to kill her on basic principle, my veneer of protection be damned, never mind that she nearly gored their Lord and Master. The problem was that I did not have a clue where her home was. The Frozen Shore where those raiders most likely casted off from was a wide stretch of gelid coastline that hosted two notable tribes with queer naming traditions that warred with the other as often as they warred with the Bear Islanders, and there was nothing forbidding the existence of smaller factions that would be as un-neighborly. I suppose I could wake the lass up and ask her, but I was skeptical that she would be in a talkative mood after both losing her mount and being taken virtually prisoner by those her kind perceived as _kneelers_. Were I anybody else, I would be lacking for convenient solutions to this issue.

Thankfully, I was myself, and with all that being me entailed.

I gave a casual glance to my surroundings, figuring that I had plenty of time before Lord Mormont's future Captain of the Household Guard, Engrom, decided to check in on me. It would be hours before I had to attend the celebratory feast in the Mormont's Keep, and I still had to figure out where I was going to keep my ward during that time. Mormont had been adamant on forbidding someone who had almost killed him a spot in his home, let alone at his dinner table, and I could not begrudge him the sentiment. Bet he thought he was being sly by doing that and making me the guest of honor in his home. Shaggy bugger probably craved to see how I dealt with the slight conundrum he had created for me. Would I figuratively prostrate myself to him and ask a favor? Or would I risk an _accident_ befalling my ward and dismiss it as bad luck? Surely the man had the presence of mind to realize that I was a bigger danger than I appeared, my earlier actions notwithstanding. Why gamble on displeasing me?

A problem for later. I had curiosities to satisfy, and a discreet way of accomplishing it.

I approached the sleeping Free Folk girl, brushing free some detached pieces of foliage from the breeze out of her eye-catching locks before crouching to my knees in front of her. Face to face, I had time to study her countenance. She was of dainty features, high cheekbones, a round chin, a cute button nose, and with a fair, if freckled complexion. Plus, she was a redheaded warg; therefore it was safe to declare that this girl lucked out in the genetic lottery. I laid an index finger on her forehead (for a solid, efficient, and _isolated_ connection) and closed my eyes in the physical world… before opening them again in a metaphysical one, dark as the stellar void and just as infinite, if not more so.

Dreamwalking was a rare ability back home. I could count the number of people who were capable of doing so on one hand, and none of them came remotely in the vicinity of matching Luna's skill (who conducted it routinely while _awake_ ), as was inherent to her domain as the Princess of the Night and Lunar Regent. I myself obtained this ability under her careful tutelage, and excelled only due to a natural talent in all things arcane and a desire to learn. In retrospect, it was ironic in a way, as lucid dreaming eluded me in my birthworld, and the dreams that I did have regularly were nonsensical upon reflection. Dreams in general manifested themselves in this place that was not a place in a myriad of shapes, colors, and even _flavors_. The one ahead of me resembled a violet, cannonball jellyfish, floating and bobbing in an invisible stream. I doubted that the girl had ever seen a jellyfish before, but possessing prior knowledge of a thing meant little in the metaphorical world of _Somnium_ , as I had taken to naming it.

In order to enter a person's dream-realm, one had to _knock_. This was not only a polite gesture, but also a necessity, as entering the dream sans permission (or by using a backdoor, as Luna showed me how to do) was liable to collapse the dream automatically, shattering it like so much glass. Additionally, making contact with the 'fabric' of the dream relayed information to me about its contents, and in my case and Luna's, conferring a degree of influence and the means of asserting and building upon that influence. It was like having to lockpick your way through a series of doors, each granting access to higher 'administrative privileges' for want of a better description. In Arcania, Luna would be the one that had a skeleton key, whereas I had a fine set of lockpicks and the knowhow to infiltrate expeditiously. It was mildly inconvenient in that fashion, but it served a necessary purpose, for Fell creatures that prowled _Somnium_ and would otherwise prey upon unsuspecting dreamers where they were particularly vulnerable would be rebuffed, if not by the natural defenses that were in place, then by a vengeful Night Princess when she unfailingly noticed attempted intrusions and swiftly inflicted retribution upon them.

Hardly anybody was aware of the service being performed for them in their sleep, and hardly anybody ever thanked her for it. It was a grave injustice in my eyes, and I often reminded my people that they were truly watched over and protected by their benevolent rulers, in _all aspects_.

I tapped on the jellyfish's bell, as was my habit for these procedures.

I didn't even encounter the telltale resistance that pushing against the textile-like walls of a dream-realm would engender, which did not speak well of the protections of this world's humans (or unseasoned wargs) against some of the creatures that figuratively went bump in the night. The structure of the girl's dream parted for me like air through a wire screen, effortlessly. Information came to me wholesale, with no resistance anywhere… and no doors either. The change was so unusual for me as to be almost jarring, but I powered through, absorbing and interpreting the stream of data like a living supercomputer. From what I was reading here, the girl was reliving pivotal, formative memories in her life, which was rather convenient for me, as deliberately manipulating a person's dreams so that they would have to experience negative moments they would sooner forget just for my sake left a bad taste in my mouth. If she was already doing so, then I got to keep my hands clean, in some partial sense.

I delved markedly deeper, surreptitiously weaving myself into the quilting of the dream, if I was in keeping with the textile metaphors. Involving one's self in a dream that was also a memory carried with it some risks, least of all was standing out and getting deemed as an intruder. Death in a dream for the dreamer was like a hard reset, either disrupting the flow of the dream or altogether waking the sleeper completely. Death for an interloper in another's dream was annoying, usually locking them out the person's dream for the duration of it, not to mention the fact that it stung like a motherfraker. Luckily for me, I had full administrative access, which allowed me to 'write' myself in without trouble, and the best part was that I didn't have to put in any elbow grease. The silver lining of a world where people where not only physically squishy, but metaphysically to boot.

I was amidst a village that made the habitation outside the gates in the waking world seem sophisticated by comparison. The houses reminded me of yurts, though a good deal cruder in construction, with their structure consisting of branches tied together with wood fibers that formed a teepee that jutted out of the dried sealskins patched together that made up the walls of these primitive huts. Still, it was shelter against the harsh elements with what materials were on hand; as the carpet of blue on the horizon told that these people did not exist separate from the ocean and its bounty. To further demonstrate this, the smell of cooking fish permeated the air (strong scents were a prevalent feature in memories), along with smoke as fierce looking women dressed in sealskin preserved strips of some type of red meat over an open flame. Men sharpened rough spears of stone and bone as they leaned on sleds built of wood and whalebone that were pulled by dogs not dissimilar to overlarge Siberian huskies and Greenlander dogs. I was struck by how closely these people resembled the Inuit of my birthworld, except mostly Caucasian (although that term did not technically apply here) in ethnicity.

These details were informative, but not explicitly accurate, as they did not occur within direct sight of the dreamer. An interesting tidbit about dreams was that they tended to fill in gaps that would otherwise be blank. The girl knew that this was normal routine for these people, if they were her people that is, so this was all filler. From what I was seeing, this was not a terribly populated tribe, with maybe a hundred or so members from what I could see in the vicinity. The only distinctive features about them were that the males wore what had to be bits of reindeer antler sewn onto their furry caps. The land they lived on was fittingly named, with a rocky meandering shoreline, and small woods of pine trees whose branches were shingled with snow. It was the middle of winter, and everything was covered in a thick blanket of white, with the occasional spots of brown and grey. The air itself was cold enough to sting as it inflated one's lungs. Say what one would about the Free Folk, but they survived in some inhospitable conditions that stretched the limits of what human beings could tolerate, and that alone was worthy of a modicum of respect.

In the center of this nomadic camp was a hut just like all the others, but the man that emerged from the flap was an atypical member as far as appearances went. He was sporting a headpiece with a pair of antlers sewn into the back of it, giving him the impression of a position of leadership. This was confirmed when he gruffly barked orders (in a coarse, clangy language that the dream supplied as being that of the Old Tongue) to a pair of hunters minding one of the sleds. While the men of this tribal-like group were hard and wiry from a lean existence, this man had some meat and muscles on his bones. Wide at the shoulders and powerfully built, he had no qualms with throwing it about, as exhibited when he clouted one of the men on the noggin, a sulky faced teen actually, for backtalk. Muttering to himself as the other man of the two chuckled at his expense, the teen mounted the sled, shouted to the dogs, and skidded off into the white expanse.

The other man murmured low to the redheaded man and he responded in kind, a dark mood shared betwixt them as they watched the sulky teen disappear under the horizon. After a minute or so of quiet contemplation, the broad redheaded man idly commented in a tone that was ostensibly cautiously hopeful, and the man beside him clutched tightly to the shaft of the bone tipped spear he was holding, before he nodded and stalked away.

Intrigued as I was, I wondered what this commanding man had to do with the girl. A call from the voice of a woman to his rear would clarify for me, as the man returned to the entrance of his tent with a smile on his face as he beheld the (equally red haired) woman. She had to be the Free Folk equivalent to his wife, for shyly attached to her thigh and blending in with her brown speckled sealskin boots was a girl in a parka that was no older than eight, and who had to be the originator of this dream. The man, who I decided to designate as Chieftain, kissed his partner before he stooped to scoop up his daughter (for what else could she be at this point?) and toss her into the air, earning a giggling laugh as he caught her and nuzzled his nose to hers, doing little to dissuade me from comparing them to the eskimo. The woman drew him in for another kiss and informed him in the common tongue that he had yet to break his fast. The Chieftain's stomach agreed with that sentiment as it commenced to grumble, to his red faced embarrassment and his wife's amusement.

I floated after them as they settled down in their hut for a meal consisting of fire-cooked fish, strips of charred reindeer meat, and a handful of withered wintergreen berries for desert. Given how they were the prominent family in this village, this basic fare was no doubt considered luxurious. I observed the interplay between the members of the family with mild curiosity. The father was stoic and curt in manner and speech, but the mother and he traded glances that indicated that they loved each other. The mother acted in a way that indicated that she wore the pants in the relationship, though she acted reasonable with her power as the family matriarch. The daughter was sweet and gentle, kindly and covertly donating her berries to her father when she noticed that he was not as thrilled as she was with the allotment that the mother authorized as the head of the household. The father grinned at her and ruffled her hair in thanks, while the mother rolled her eyes as she deciphered the meaning behind the gesture and let it slide.

After breakfast, the girl's father left to administrate things while mother and daughter spent the next couple of hours affixing bits of bone and sharpened stone to suitably straight wooden limbs by using a celt shaped like an L to haft the thicker end before inserting the intended spear tip and tying it securely with wood fibers sourced from tree bark or strings of hemp. As they worked, the mother began to tell her daughter of a story she favored; with how excited the lass was to hear it. It was about the earliest of days, when men first crossed over into Westeros from Essos (or the Old Realm, as she referred to it), of how magic was alive in those days and that the greatest example of this were the mythical Children of the Forest. Such was their magical might that in their war with their distant ancestors, their Greenseers gathered in mass and invoked their potent powers to shatter the land bridge that connected Westeros to Essos in order to curb the detrimental flow of tool wielding, Weirwood felling men into their lands, and again to split the continent in twain. I myself knew from what Lore that I remembered that these events were what led to the islands known as the Stepstones and the swamplands termed The Neck.

It did not escape me that the mother carefully did not mention that a horrific number of blood sacrifices were needed to arouse this 'Hammer'.

While this did nothing to stop the men that had already gained a foothold, it did play a part in their peaceful agreement with the Children during the Pact. It was during this period of peace that a select few of their ancestors gained the ability to commune with animals and see the world through their eyes, taste it with their tongues, and understand it with their minds. Those who received this ability thought of it as a blessing of the nameless Gods that they adopted from the Children of the Forest, although those who didn't did not see it as such. Ostracized for being different, a good deal of them moved northwards, away from those who would persecute them along with those who disdained the system of hereditary kings; for while the Free Folk would follow men of strength, they were not obligated to follow his son if he was not the same. The mother then recounted that an ancestor of hers aided Joramun, the legendary First King-Beyond-the-Wall, against the Night's King by being his eyes in the sky, and that the power in his blood that let him do this was the same blood that flowed in their veins.

The sounds of a rising commotion from without the tent drew their attention and the lass accompanied her mother outside to see what the hubbub was about. A crowd was gathered about a familiar dogsled, though it clearly was not in the wholesome condition that it had left the village in. Two dogs with feathered arrows sticking out of their hides left a crimson trail behind them while the surviving canines sniffed at the corpses and whined sadly. Slumped over the sled with no less than three arrows pin cushioning him was the sulky teen that was sent out by the girl's father on some errand earlier. Amazingly, the youth was still alive, though with both feet on death's doorstep. The girl's father was kneeling by him and insistently and repeatedly asked who had done this to him. The dying boy whispered something into her father's ear before he expired that made the blood drain from his cheeks. He got up shakily, before facing the people he was responsible for and declaring 'Alk renon' which roughly translated to 'man eaters' in common and adding that they were close. This announcement was met poorly, with the men vociferating for action and the non-spearwives advocating that they pack up and run in the face of this dreaded adversity.

Before her father could bring order to the nigh hysterical mass of people, a screeching war cry emanated from the horizon and a shower of iron tipped arrows landed all around them, dropping several and inducing a frenzied panic. The girl's mother reacted immediately, snatching up her daughter in one arm and grabbing a quality spear from a recently deceased hunter and running for the forest, her daughter screaming for her father as he tried to coordinate a defense versus a veritable horde of enemies enclosing on the village from the east in the dozens and hundreds. These _man eaters_ were on average better equipped than the usual wildlings, and these men were deserving of the epithet if they were what I thought they were; bearing swords, axes, and arrows of iron make that outclassed what the tribes-people had to defend themselves with. Faced with a foe that had numbers, superior equipment, and ferocity on their side, the tribe's doom was spelt as plain as day. The girl and her mother fortunately managed to break through the cordon before it formed, though their escape did not go unnoticed.

Fleeing into the woods, they were pursued by a trio of men, a rabid glint in their eyes that was so uncannily detailed as to be something that perfectly imprinted on the girl's memory. They shouted vile obscenities and taunts about what they were going to do to them before they killed and ate them, and my heart went out to the girl in sympathy. I suspected where this was going as I drifted alongside. They pursued them relentlessly for miles, and while the mother displayed impressive stamina, her flagging speed and wheezy breathing told of her burgeoning exhaustion. The perfunctory hunters played with their quarry, always keeping just within sight to their rear. The mother seemed to know that they couldn't hope to lose them, and so she chose a spot by a steep mound of snow to put their back to an area that prevented an easy flank. She bent earthward and presented her daughter with a fine dagger of short steel and a polished handle of some lightly shaded sentinel wood with an emblem of a sword within a barren tree engraved on the pommel.

This lordly weapon's presence I _intuited_ by abusing my administrator privileges as being one of the perks to being the Chieftain's wife, which for them meant having first dibs on the best loot. This particular dagger belonged to some kneeler's son who had been one of the reviled crows that had harassed and slew the Free Folk indiscriminately for untold generations on their rangings, earning them a local reputation as being boogiemen. The children of the tribe were often told that if they didn't behave themselves, a crow would manifest out of the darkness itself to snatch them up and gobble them whole. In her mind, the only things scarier than the hated crows were the dreaded White Walkers of legend, who were rarely spoken of, and only in soft tones, as though invoking their names would attract their attention. Unlike those in the south, the Free Folk forbid their descendants from forgetting that the icy enemy of life was not wholly destroyed.

The event that explained what the dagger was doing in her mother's possession happened well before the girl was born, but her father had told the story of the dagger so often that it was hard for her to misremember. The particular dagger was claimed as a prize from one of those rare foiled rangings that their group and three other groups of Free Folk had coordinated together to ambush before they could be ambushed in turn. Shockingly, the discipline of this bunch of crows had been unusually poor, and they had been slain in good number before the Free Folk were beaten off. The girl's father had been the one to slay the crow that had the dagger on his person in single combat, and so took his lordly sidearm for himself as a memento. The girl's mother had 'convinced' him to part with it after he had clandestinely stolen her from the Chief's tent of one of the tribes they had worked with on that venture before going separate ways. The girl herself privately suspected that the event in question was what led to her being born nine moons later, though she would never broach the topic with her parents.

The girl beheld the dagger that was practically a family heirloom with awe that was then superseded by fear, as she knew that they would likely die that day. An unspoken understanding came between mother and daughter as they stood their ground. The three cannibal wildlings laughed and hooted as they caught up with them, their savage grins hiding rotting teeth that stunk of the detritus of their previous 'meals'. Smells that I could vicariously experience just hinted at how imprinted this memory was on the dreamer. The three wildlings, like those that were assaulting the girl's village, were armed with crude iron weapons. They were also wearing morbid chest pieces of human bones that were probably suitable for psychological warfare rather than as legitimate armor. On top of this, they displayed sickening trophies such as necklaces of necrotizing fingers, toes, ears, and other sundry parts that made the girl want to lose her bile. That one detail severely tested my sense of control, as I had faced foes that did the same to their victims in a war that devastated much of my adopted home.

The girl shivered as she clutched her mother's dagger, and not from the outdoor chill.

As one, the wildling men charged at the girl's mother, disregarding her daughter as a representing a threat to them. Quick as lightning, the mother lunged with the spear and caught the closest of the men in the thigh, making him drop to the snow with a blood curdling screech as he pawed at his wound to stem the blood loss. The cannibals snarled and rallied, trying to split the mother's attention amid them as they probed at her defenses with newfound caution. Even exhausted as she was, the mother was clearly skilled with the hunting spear, fending them off using the entirety of the armament other than just the tip, parrying and countering beautifully. The wounded wildling had spitefully attempted to hamstring the woman when his fellows had corralled her towards him, but the daughter had swallowed her fear and jammed the dagger into his eye socket and through his grey matter before he could do so, stilling him permanently. One of the two active wildlings with a crooked nose saw this and cursed at her, breaking off to deal with the troublesome child.

Her mother cried out in dismay and pivoted to sweep the wildling off his feet with the spear, knocking him on his ass. However, in valiantly doing so, she had exposed her six to the other wildling, who had no issues with stabbing a woman in the back. The mother's grip on her spear failed her and she coughed as a thin rivulet of blood began to leak from her mouth. The wildling grunted in triumph, tauntingly licking the mother's cheek before he withdrew his blade to finish the job, seizing her by her fiery hair and slitting her throat. The girl screamed, the shrill sound ripping through the air and eerily echoing as I discerned that there was a _change_. An earth rumbling growl emanated from the mound, and something big, yellowish white, and angry crested it. The wildling men murmured in alarm at the sight of it and started to backpedal. The dying mother smiled grimly, a satisfied mien to her paling features as she collapsed bonelessly and was motionless. Oddly, despite the turbulent emotions coursing through her at the mortal wounding of her mother, the perturbed bear roused memories of the how grumpy the girl's father sometimes acted when his sleep had been indecently interrupted.

I studied the Great big bear dispassionately. The beast was huge, even by polar bear standards. If it stood on its hind legs, it would have towered over everyone at a whopping thirteen feet. It was no stranger to conflict, bearing the telltale scars from dozens of fights, in all probability versus men, as no other creatures this far north could dare to challenge such a mighty animal on equal footing. If its luxuriant pelt were used as a rug, it would sell for a small fortune, in this world and in mine. This was a top predator, and not above throwing its weight around when its nap was rudely disturbed. What really piqued my interest though, was that this was not the same bear that I slew earlier. This polar bear made the one that the dreamer had ridden during the failed raid seem tiny in comparison. Were they related, somehow?

There was a secondhand jolt as the girl's eyes met the bear's and a connection was made. A veritable flood of information that wasn't processed by human senses became known to the girl. Smells had become crisper; such that the girl could detect the scent of terror in the form of piss stained goatskin trousers, hearing was heightened; such that the girl could determine the creaking of branches struggling with their frozen load, and sight was sharpened; such that the girl could see the minute twitches in the faces of the men gaping in dismay at their doom looming over them. She could see her own self from the bear's eyes, hunched on the floor by her first kill and with clouded irises. The girl was now an unwitting passenger in the beast's mind… but that was all she was. Her rising panic at her inability to do anything only served to further agitate the bear.

The Snow Bear glared at the intruders that dared make a racket outside its burrowed den. These two legged pests would not threaten its young! It opened its jaws and let out a roar that shook the snow off nearby tree branches and sent the two wildlings scurrying like rats. This was a mistake, and prompted the bear into a sprint. A literal ton of muscle, fur, and fury came thundering downwards on the slope. The two wildlings never stood a chance, getting run down and bowled over before they could so much as make it twenty paces out. The bear leapt and bit at the chest of one, shaking it violently like a child with a doll, before it mauled its throat with its claws; the rents in the man's flesh poured out a river of blood that steamed in the cold. The other wildling was muttering incoherent prayers before the bear stomped a paw on his spine to stop him from moving and almost serenely lowered its mouth to the nape of his neck. A sickening crunch of bone signaled the death of the final wildling.

Victorious, the polar bear undertook to feast on its kills, biting off bloody chunks and pieces to take to its young. It was winter, and while manflesh was lacking in fullness and flavor, its young would need all the food that it could provide. The seals and walruses it had taught its cubs to hunt were sparse along the shoreline these days, and the local groups of two legs causing competition did not help. The bear spared a moment to consider the two-leg girl that was as unmoving as a mountain, before dismissing it as a waste of its time. Not enough meat, and if given time to grow, would make a better meal if it came across it again. One of its cubs had poked its head out of the snowdrift that it had dug its den with to see what the commotion was. As they made eye contact, the girl perceived her mind 'jump' to the cub's body, like a man would hop between fishing canoes. The cub's mind accepted her presence with ease, unlike its mother's, who wobbled unsurely, disorientated as it noticed a mental absence where there wasn't one before. The girl felt that she was still in danger and instinctively, she urged herself to return to her idle body.

She snapped back like a rubber band and scrambled to her feet, something possessing her to take her mother's dagger with her. Tears freezing on her cheeks as she was forced to leave her mother's body behind to be consumed by that monster in white. The bear granted no attention to her, only snorting derisively at her exit. She ran and ran until her legs could support her no longer and she curled up by a tree, sobbing in grief as all she had in her life was cruelly torn from her. Snowfall and a falling sun forced her to delay her mourning period, and she sought shelter in a rocky overhang recessed into a hill, protecting her from wind-chill and giving her a semblance of a roof. Putting her parents' numerous teachings to work, she set herself to gathering whatever flammable material she could that wasn't too saturated with snow. She flattened an area in her shelter to expose the soil underneath the snow and put a rock in the middle to act as a platform for the sticks and branches that was to be her firewood.

As night fell and the temperatures steadily plummeted, the industrious girl had everything that she required. She had tinder by way of driest tree bark, twigs, dead peat moss, and finely shredded mushroom caps; kindling in stripped sticks and pinecones; and fuel in a pile of broken up branches she had expertly chopped up. She had crafted a celt axe using a keen stone, a hardwood limb as thick as a baby's arm, and wood fibers and her locks of hair for fastening. It was a simple tool that she had not appreciated the true importance of, until then. She stacked the hardwood branches together in a square atop the stone platform, as her elders had found that doing so allowed the fire to bounce heat on itself and created hot, lasting embers that were conducive to continuous combustion of added material. With a windbreaker shielding her and with the campfire set, all she had to do was ignite it.

The girl dug into her outfit to retrieve a crucial well-worn, C shaped fire-steel with a bronze-iron hump that many of the Free Folk would gladly kill each other over in a situation like this. Thanking her nameless gods of nature that she was a Chieftain's daughter, she struck the fire-steel with a flint several times to produce the sparks that would safeguard her life. The tinder caught these sparks and glowed in a way that warmed the girl's heart and would hopefully warm her body too. She gently blew on the glowing spots to encourage them to build and catch the kindling, which would then ignite the firewood. It was difficult to do, and the girl had blown herself nearly breathless by the time she had a small flame going that grew into a blaze. It was overly smoky, indicating that despite all her efforts, there was still moisture in the materials that was counteracting the fire. She counted herself fortunate that the fearsome snowstorms that occasionally whipped through the land had littered the ground with sufficient resources to defeat the deficit. Within an hour, rocks she had deposited by the fireside had retained the right amount of warmth for her to pocket and keep her core body temperature high.

Satisfied that she could hold off death via freezing for now, she fed and stoked the fire before letting the emotional and physical exhaustion of the day's tumultuous events pull her to a tearful sleep, thus ending the narrative of the dream in a manner that resembled the deactivation of an old television screen. The only reason I was not ejected forthwith was because she was magically induced to stay under.

(Theme Music: Destiny by Erik Wollo)

Dissatisfied with this, I utilized administrator privileges to dig deeper into her memories and set them to replay. I disliked making the girl relive such horrible memories, but I needed to understand her motivations and what drove her before I could issue judgment on what to do with her in the waking world. I adjusted it so that the memories were fast-forwarded and a bullet note summary of her life until I had made her my ward could be taken. The girl survived the next three days in the wilderness on half frozen, leftover carrion carcasses that were picked at by birds, mushrooms and moss clumps that her mother had shown her were safe to cook and consume, melted snow and dripping icicles for water, and even mild tasting cambium wood from spruce or pine trees that she would dig out of the trunk with her knife and roast over her secluded campfire. She never ventured far from her makeshift shelter, which she had improved with what little she had in hand, although she desperately wished to see if her village had somehow beaten the odds and survived as she did. Most of all, she wanted to see if her father yet lived.

On the fourth night, she had an unexpected visitor in the form of the bear cub she had now realized with some mixed anxiousness and excitement that she had warged with; half frightening her out of her skin. She attempted to scare it off at first, but the cub was undeterred by her posturing. When the cub brought back a winter fox by the scruff of its neck for them to share in the morning, the girl comprehended that her odds of living had drastically increased. She spent another week refining her awakened warging ability, and the bear cub was unusually receptive to her presence in its mind. She used its predator's instincts and senses to help track quarry that would keep them fed, striking it big when they discovered a lamed elk that was wounded from an encounter with the wolves, one of which it had gored on its horns. Utilizing a disposable crude spear with a fire hardened but brittle tip that she had sharpened with her trusty dagger, she drove the point into its heart and harvested its corpse, allowing her newfound animal companion (which she had uncreatively named _Snowy_ in the Old Tongue) to gorge herself on the rest. Soon, the girl resolved to head west and find a sympathetic clan of Free Folk to explain her plight to and seek aid from.

Sometimes, before she slept, the girl would stare at the fire and wonder why her gods would send her an ally like the cub of that Snow Bear that indirectly saved her from the wildling cannibals, but was glad that the cub's mother had not hunted them down regardless. The adult Snow Bear's mind was hard, cold, and unyielding as ice, whereas its cub's was malleable and pleasant to work with as the snow she was christened after. Her dreams had been odd lately as well, involving hunting seals with her mother and siblings… that she did not have? The girl was confused, but was thankful that she was no longer alone, or without hope.

The girl had not paid much attention to her father's inter-clan dealings, but her mother had often told her that her father made sure that their clan was on good terms with its neighbors, save for those insular clans who were hostile against any not their own. The problem was that the killers of her mother and village were to the east, and that the Great Walrus tribes who disdained outsiders were in the direction of the setting sun by the coast. Faced with a rock and a hard place type of decision, the girl chose the people that were not as likely to eat her on sight. Preserving what meat she could carry as best as she could, she set out in search of a sympathetic ear, her furry companion in tow. The weather was favorable to her journey, as the sun was rarely obscured by cloud cover during the daytime. At night, the girl and the girl-cub would dig a shelter in the snow and curl up together, the polar bear's fur and body heat keeping them both warm. When their supplies were depleted, the duo would pause their trip to hunt, and would repeat this pattern for the next three weeks.

They made first contact with other clansmen when one of their hunting parties stumbled across her. The now lean and haggard girl in their midst, they thought next to nothing of, but the Snow Bear trailing behind her like a personal pet got their attention. Vexingly, they spoke only a few words of the common speech, but their Old Tongue was so traditional that the girl believed that even the northeastern giants of folklore would think them mockingly accented. These had to be the people she was looking for, as they adorned their garb with walrus bones, and bore queer monikers like _whitewhisker_ or _swiftdeer_. The girl was glad that her parents were not traditionalists like many others in their roving village. The girl dredged up the closest words she could for asking them for assistance, but it seemed that the men were eager to take her with them straightaway, keeping a wary eye on her animal companion. They conveyed her to a squalid village not too divorced from the shore that was perhaps five times as large as her had been, and was surprised when one of the men had informed her that this was a smaller settlement for those of the Great Walrus clans.

They took her to the chieftain's tent in the center of the village. Along the way the girl received suspicious stares from men and women that morphed into shock when they beheld the Snow Bear that she had developed a working relationship with. They hissed in the Old Tongue that she was one of the 'Fol tokra' or flesh-jumpers, and the girl became quite self conscious during those several minutes before they reached the chieftain. Her mother (and the thought of her still pained the girl) had relayed to her during the stories that those blessed with the ability to shift skins were distrusted and frowned upon by those who did not know better, but she did not anticipate the harsh words and barely concealed hostility to gnaw so deeply at her. She was likewise distrusting of the Great Walrus clans, as they held to odd customs and believed that the animals that could be found on the Frozen Shore were the children of the winter gods themselves. It was silly, the girl thought, how did they think wearing the flesh and bones of their gods' children would appease them? At least her people, of the Antlered Men, wore the parts of their prey to showcase their dominance over them and to ward off the elements.

One of the men had gone ahead to speak to the Chieftain to notify him of her arrival, as well as her special talents, the girl wagered cynically. But if that was what she would have to levy in order to avenge her mother's murder and the deaths of her village people, then so be it.

She met the Chieftain of the settlement beside a sizable pit meant for a bonfire. He was conversing with a gathering of men who were ready for battle, decked out in bits of scavenged armor and bearing circular wooden shields with the fading paint of kneeler sigils or cheaper wicker shields with animal skin stretched over them. Clad in copper ring mail overlaid with a sort of bronze disk bandolier etched with runes and sewn sealskin furs, the Chieftain himself cut an imposing figure, the upper skull of a walrus was on his head, its tusks stained red with coatings of dried blood. Idly, the girl noted that he was also kissed by fire, like her and her parents, though his eyes were sickly green like washed-up seaweed in contrast to her own light green orbs; like spring grass, her mother had told her. The man of the group escorting the girl who had left to announce her to him was pointing in her direction, and the Chieftain's eyes followed before narrowing on her. It was not a friendly gaze, and rather unnerved the girl. He dismissed the gaggle of warriors and advanced on his tent, waving for the escorts to bring the girl with him.

The interior of the Chieftain's tent was spacious, thrice as big as her parents' had been, and not half as plain. Ovular sealskin rugs richly carpeted the floor, a Weirwood hunting bow and some quivered arrows rested on a stand, and strange beaded trinkets hung from the tent's structure supports throughout. Clay cookware bubbled and frothed over a blazing fire, emitting a hearty scent of meat and vegetable stew that made her stomach grumble painfully. The food was being tended by the Chieftain's dour faced woman, if the girl had to guess. The Chieftain set aside his macabre headwear and sat by the fire. He did not relax though, and his attention did not split from his guest. He motioned for her to remove her hood and she complied, revealing messily trimmed hair from where she had sheared herself to make fastening string for her celt. Other than a flash of recognition passing through him, the man betrayed nothing as he hummed to himself in contemplation and he considered her, absently stroking at his goatee.

He began with a line of rigid words in the Old Tongue that she missed the meaning of. She reluctantly requested clarification using what scant words she knew. It was not her primary language, to her father's dismay and her mother's delight, but it was hurting her now.

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, "Your grasp of our ancestors' tongue is poor" His chided in uncannily smooth common as his austere eyes bore into hers, "What clan are you from, girl?"

She met his piercing gaze evenly, "I am of the Antlered Men. We lived about a moon's journey from here. My father is a Chieft-"

"I know who your father was" He interrupted her midsentence.

That caught her off guard, "You do?"

He bobbed his head, "Aye, I do. He was my brother after all"

She was momentarily flabbergasted. Her father rarely spoke of his family, and he would always change the subject, even when mother expressed her own curiosity.

"You are my… uncle?" The girl hazarded slowly, "He made no mention of you"

He barked a humorless laugh, "No, I do not imagine he would have. He and I did not see eye to eye, for all that we fought together"

"How can it be that you are with the Great Walrus clans and my father with the Antlered Men?" She pondered aloud.

Her supposed uncle shrugged, "I saw the strength in their people, now they are mine, as are their women, as are their gods. Now I am _Redtusk_ … and that name carries the weight of a glacier" He was distinctly pleased with himself for that.

He grabbed a bowl of clay and scooped a serving of the stew into it with a crude ladle. The woman minding it protested immediately, but was silenced by a stony glimpse from him. She pursed her lips in a pout and glared at the girl and her cub companion both. The Chieftain then handed it to the girl, who gratefully accepted both the sustenance and the invoking of the Guest Right. Though the stew had the consistency of watery gruel and the flavors of seal fat and fish clashed on her tongue, the girl could have sworn by all the gods that it was one of the best meals she had ever partaken of after a month of living off the land. She gobbled and slurped the stew down her gullet, moaning happily as it warmed her innards. The man seemed amused by her appetite, and snorted to himself. Perhaps her 'uncle' was a nice man?

He continued with his tale, "Before that though, your father and I traveled with a band of raiders that lived on the banks of the Milkwater near the Skirling Pass when we were boys. We were not numerous… but we were strong, and cunning too. We would sneak into the camps of our quarry, steal their supplies, slay their men, and take their women with us… though your father did not approve of how we did not keep them unspoiled… or alive"

The girl tensed at that. Stealing a woman to start a family with was a time honored tradition, albeit one that she personally thought was stupid and would violently resist if it happened to her, but there were those who took it too far and rightfully earned the despicable title of _Wildling_ that the southerners so casually branded them with.

"I see you share your father's distaste for the ways of the strong" The Chieftain noted, "Allow me to educate you, my _vagrant_ _niece_. The strong _rule_ , and the weak _serve_ unless they become strong themselves. Even the Free Folk acknowledge this, though they do not openly admit it as such. I learned this when I was younger than you. How it never got through to your father's thick skull is beyond me. We separated when our group had the misfortune of encountering bloodthirsty crows. We each fled south to the Frozen Shore, though he went over to the Antlered Men and used the skills we had learned under ol' Gremdal the Grave to become Chieftain of his own tribe. But his inability to do what must be done and be the mighty predator instead of the bleating prey is the reason why he is dead, and his village with him"

That struck the girl like a hammer blow, "My father is… i-is dead?"

"Afraid so, girl" He did not appear mournful in the slightest, "One of my scouts came upon the ruins of your village some weeks ago. It had been razed, and the corpses of the slain had been defiled afterwards. Fuckin' Ice-river savages had gotten to them" He fished an item out of his belongings and presented it to her, "This was found on your father's… remains"

There was a tinge of regret there, but he masked it expertly to the grief stricken girl. I was not fooled, however. The recovered item itself was a silver pendant and hemp cord of a symbol that represented an upside-down Valknut. It was of exceptional craftsmanship, given the primitive metalworking technology of this world and the fact that they were Beyond-the-Wall, where professional forges were as rare of hen's teeth I would wager.

"T-this… this is my father's luck charm" She observed, her eyes glassy, "My father had ever claimed that he would not have been able to steal my mother without it granting him the favor of the gods"

Her uncle scoffed, "It is more than a mere luck charm, girl. That was worn by Norolf the Red himself, once. He was one of the four great Chieftains to rule Hardhome, before it was laid waste to. We have his blood coursing through us"

The girl could not care less about that tidbit, "I'll kill them" She hissed through gritted teeth as she clutched the pendant in her hands so hard that it dug into her flesh, "I'll kill them all"

"Good" Her Uncle grunted with an approving tone, "There is _fire_ in you. You will need it to take your vengeance" He paused to take in the cub that was sitting on its rump, "Though I reckon that creature will contribute about as much, once it matures"

The girl stifled a sniffle and wiped at her face as she stashed the pendant in a pocket. She glanced at the woman that was eavesdropping on their private conversation with zero comprehension. The girl wanted to ask anent her warging abilities in case her uncle could input whatever wisdom he had on the matter.

"She does not understand a word of what we are saying, girl" He uncle chuckled at her nervousness, "And neither will you understand a word of what my people say unless you learn"

"Do you know anything about wargs, uncle?" The familial word was like a raft for her to cling to, now that she was an orphan.

"Only that my people despise them, though I am one of the exceedingly few that can see their utility" He replied, enjoying some of the stew himself, "My people are averse to those who can possess the children of the Winter Gods themselves. You will not be making any friends here, excluding me" He noisily sucked in a chunk of seal blubber and chewed on it, "I cannot recall any of my ancestors being skinchangers"

"My mother's ancestors" The girl whispered morosely.

He interpreted the pain in her voice for what it was, "My condolences, child. What the men of the Ice-rivers did to your people is nature, but that does not mean we have to accept it. You survived them and wandered the wilderness on your own for weeks, and at your age that is no small feat. You are _strong_ , are you not, niece?"

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded solemnly.

"I may be Chieftain of this village, but my people do not adopt outsiders easily, be they flesh of my flesh or not. There are certain customs that must be adhered to" He took off his left hand sealskin glove and unsheathed a wicked iron knife with a handle of deer jawbone, "We are not kneelers, and bow to no man… but oaths sworn in blood are binding in the eyes of gods and men" He held out his exposed left hand, "I swear to protect and watch over my brother's daughter, for as long as she requires it, and for as long as she dedicates herself to me and my people until she is free to choose otherwise" He stipulated as he sliced into his palm, dripping the blood into the fire, which crackled and popped, "She shall have a home by my side. This, _Redtusk_ swears, by blood and by fire"

The girl, seeing no alternative, chose to follow his example, drawing her mother's knife that had served her so well already, "I swear to uphold my end of the oath, to support my uncle and his people" She hissed as the dagger's edge bit into her palm. She clenched her hand above the fire and drops of her lifeblood dribbled onto it, causing it to crepitate and sizzle, "This I swear, by blood and by fire" She vowed. There was another _change_ in the atmosphere, though I do not think the girl or anyone else truly perceived it. I did though… it was _magic_ , and magic held oaths that were sworn using its power very seriously.

The woman bore witness to this act, and though the words eluded her, its significance did not, and so her stare became less outright hostile, though no less mistrusting of the warg that her people had gained.

Her uncle gave her a bandage composed of disinfecting beard lichen to wrap the cut with, "I welcome you, niece. Now you are one of us" He smiled at her, although it was not a smile that I would describe as being affectionate, only pleased.

I fast-forwarded the chain of memories again.

The girl had a difficult time adjusting to her new people. The boys and girls her age and older would pick on her, throwing pebbles of ice at her, cursing her, or pushing her about until her uncle literally knocked some sense into them. For her own wellbeing, her uncle had her live on the isolated outskirts of the village, which did nothing to assuage her loneliness. Their hunting parties regularly made use of her warging abilities, and while the girl and animal duo significantly increased the odds of a successful hunt, it did not endear them to the clansmen and women, who stubbornly clung to their beliefs that she was not natural. The Ice-river clans that her adopted people had warred with since time immemorial had gotten bolder as the moons went by. The group that had slaughtered her kith and kin did so with superior weapons that they had gotten from somewhere. Her uncle _Redtusk_ was obsessed with discovering where they did, as the crows that had typically 'supplied' them with prime weapons were nowhere close to be 'donating' them to the westerly located Ice-river people.

Her uncle was a rather puissant warrior, slaughtering dozens of men of the Ice-river clans in various skirmishes and proving that the moniker of _Redtusk_ was no misnomer. However, it was only the Walrus clans' loosely united numbers that kept the comparatively divided cannibal tribes at bay. Compensating for this shortcoming, the cannibals fought ferociously and with weapons that outclassed the majority of theirs. Winter ceased and was followed by a fleeting year of summer, but during that summer her uncle had his scouts scour the lands around the Ice-rivers to unearth the secret that their people's welfare depended on. Those that did return to him reported that there were a dozen and a half ships from the south bearing the sigils of pine trees on yellow and a pattern of green and black on their gunwale shields that were scattered and beached all along the river's banks for miles. When _Redtusk_ heard this, he swore a storm of words in the Old Tongue that the girl was gradually getting the hang of.

He later explained to her in private that those ships were from reavers that called themselves Ironborn, who were every bit as fearsome as Free Folk raiders, but additionally they were excellently armed. They must have tried their luck sailing up the ice rivers and gotten swamped for their trouble by the locals who had superior knowledge of the land. Ironborn had no shortage of iron weapons, armor, and tools to wage war with, and rumors of their black-hearted king's cruelty reached even them. That their warriors had sailed so far north was uncommon, as they preferred to bother the kneelers' territories, but it was not unheard of either. This news boded ill for the people of the Great Walrus. The Ice-river clans were their eternal enemy, and now their enemy had the advantage and the desperation to kidnap their people's women along the border to replace their dead kinsmen. They were even sneaking east to harass the other tribes that lived on the Frozen Shore, as his niece no doubt knew.

The girl wanted to join the war parties that were to put pressure on the Ice-river men but her uncle forbade it, stating that neither she nor her mount were ready for raiding. He did permit her to support the spearwives in expropriating supplies from their camps while their warriors distracted them, which the girl begrudgingly agreed to. Clad in hand-me-down, patchy boiled leather armor and armed with a bone spear, she and the spearwives snuck into Ice-river villages and set fire to their tents, pillaged their smoked fish stores, and slew anybody that resisted them. It came as a shock to her then when a gangly boy no older than her endeavored to skewer her, forcing her to kill him in turn. The taste of the girl's vengeance soured in her mouth after that, and she participated in fewer raids after that. This pattern went on through a two year winter and a summer year. Her uncle's manifold victories against the Great Walrus clans' enemy were attracting followers to their clan, and many whispered that he was to be the successor to the aging Great Walrus himself.

 _Snowy_ was mature by then, and the girl rode her into battle to great effect, cowing the weaker of her clan's foes and swiftly dealing with the braver ones with tooth and claw. Her achievements netted her little though, except scorn for commandeering one of the winter gods' children for her own ends. She attempted to explain that none of their accusations were true, and that she did not choose to be born with her abilities, but no one would listen, so entrenched in their beliefs were they. Her uncle did not aid her in this, telling her to either assert her dominance or be dominated in his own harsh wisdom. The girl's soft heart could not stomach becoming domineering like the village bullies, and so she endured their abuses instead. Her uncle did not know what to make of her fierceness in the field and her demureness at home, and so he distanced himself from her in his indecision. The girl became bitterer as the cycle of perpetual _aggrievement_ sans a sympathetic shoulder to lean on persisted.

After he passed in his sleep, her uncle 'popularly' succeeded the deceased Great Walrus as overall Chieftain of the clans, only having to slay two naysayers from other villages. He left her for the main settlement without so much as a farewell. The man who replaced him, christened by the apt appellation of _Snagglefang_ , was one of the hardliners that despised her, forcing her to take part in riskier and riskier skirmishes and clashes versus the Ice-river clans. Given a choice between abandoning the village that had resentfully accepted her into their ranks and tolerating the new chieftain's bearshit policies towards her, she chose the latter. In defiance, she lived through every expedition; to spite the sallow faced man that refused to call her by the name her mother gave her. The raids were an outlet for her indignant rage, and a way to hone her skills as a prospective spearwife. Her actions during those three merciless years of winter transformed a goodly portion of the exclusion aimed at her into fear.

Fretful that the pariah in their midst was upstaging him, _Snagglefang_ 'summoned' her to his tent one evening and publicly beat her, trying to provoke her into hollering for her mount and providing him an excuse to kill her. The girl resisted, screaming to the smirking faces of those gathered that she could recite every words of their tongue, every custom, every person who had died to safeguard the Great Walrus clans… to no avail. Dissatisfied that she had not broken, _Snagglefang_ made the public beatings a routine, even inviting others to participate, which they did with fervor. The girl felt like a trapped rat in those days. Her uncle led the clans as a whole, and yet she could not send him a message about her treatment, and furthermore suspected that he would mock her for weakness. More than once he had remarked that she was her father's child, and not kindly.

What could the girl do? She had nowhere else to go.

 _Snagglefang's_ dark eyes eventually swiveled south. The three years of winter had stretched them to the brink of disbanding as a minor clan. Raiders from the Frozen Shore had gone south to steal necessary weapons, tools, and women in the past, some even had done so successfully. The closest and juiciest target had ever been the island of bears. Though they were the poorest of kneeler Houses, the Mormonts were still the wealthier people _by far_ than they were. _Snagglefang_ was not alone in this opinion, and winter had generated suffering for many. Joining his strength to that of another coastal clan that was building vessels to carry them over the Bay of Ice for a spot of reaving, _Snagglefang_ aspired to make his mark. Free Folk were not organic sailors or shipwrights, so this process took time. It was dozens of miles to the island, even at the closest sallying point, but the partnering Chieftains judged that it was worth the risk.

The breakout of summer encouraged this plan. The girl had caught wind of this though, and seeing a means of ditching a people that would never truly accept her, she went over to this shipbuilding clan to offer her unique talents, sustaining herself on the choicest of provisions from her village to thank them for their years of hospitality. The Chieftain of the shipbuilders, a burly man that went by Harvos, was not as averse to skinchangers as her own adopted clan was, though _Snowy's_ intimidating growl sealed the deal for him. The purported 'ships' were hardly better than logs tied together to make rafts. So crude were they that the Free Folk were practically felling trees, hacking off the branches, and dragging the lumber back to toss on the water. That they even floated was half a miracle to the girl, who had once seen the southern ships breaking apart on the Ice River on her deepest raiding trip. She would sooner take her chances with those derelict vessels. It was not for her to decide though, and so she stayed silent.

The completion of the Free Folk 'fleet' had arrived, and the girl discerned _Snowy's_ excitement through their intrinsic link. The Snow Bear enjoyed swimming and hunting seals in the frigid waters when left to her own devices, her fur and fat insulating her and making the girl patently envious. Sometimes the girl imagined that the others were jealous of her abilities because she could exit her weaker, duller flesh on a whim, whereas they were stuck with what the gods had dictated would be their forms. One of the arrogant youths that were unaccustomed to spearwives her age had foolishly questioned her worth, confronting her when she trudged off into the woods to make water. The girl disabused him of that erroneous notion when she stopped midstream, bent his nose in with her fist, and vindictively stooped atop him to finish her business as he pawed at his ugly, bleeding face. News spread, earning her some peace and quiet to herself before they cast off into the treacherous waters of the bay. At times like these, her boneheaded uncle's dispassionate wisdom had a sliver of merit to it.

The embarking procedure at predawn on the sundry rafts, coracles, and skiffs was disorganized and caused some disputes when people of differing clans refused to share a vessel together for petty reasons that made the girl roll her eyes at the hopelessness of her people. Launching their glorified, improvised flotsam saw no improvement, the poor coordination and nearly absent teamwork of the Free Folk hindering them yet again. The girl was mystified that her people as a whole were able to trouble those in the south if this is what they had to contest with. The formation of vessels was so widely dispersed that she lost sight of some boats on the horizon. Others unfortunately tipped and spilled their passengers into the freezing waters to thrash and drown. Those that voiced turning tail were rewarded with an amusing _thwop_ on the head. They had set out in earnest, and cowardice now would be punished by being tossed overboard to swim home in shame. The girl approved of this, if only so that the mewling of the overgrown green boys with dreams of proving themselves blooded warriors would cease. Ahead of her, Harvos navigated with what I figured was dead reckoning, due to the absence of landmarks at sea. They had departed from the southernmost tip of the Frozen Shores, and Harvos assured everybody that doubted him that they would find the island soon.

The Free Folk 'fleet' floated mind numbingly slow over the ice floe filled waters. The girl spent her free time seated atop a napping _Snowy_ and mentally preparing herself for the mortal struggle that was battle. If she prevailed here and brought a praiseworthy token or feat with her to her uncle, she could perhaps prove herself his niece in valor, as well as blood. If she died… well, then she would die. The girl had trouble caring lately. A day of that cheerful contemplation at sea passed, and morphed into the next morning. The rafts that hoisted rudimentary, patchwork sails of animal skins were speedier when the wind favored them, leaving the majority of the lesser crafts behind. Eager as the shipbuilder's Chieftain and her own Chieftain's second leading the raid were, neither of them were in the mood to hit the beaches of Bear Island with anything less than their combined might. Torches jammed into the 'mast' were signal beacons that lost effectiveness as the sun rose in the east, and the girl estimated that a full third of their boats were lost, temporarily or permanently.

Their lips dry from dehydration and their stomachs mollified with rations of smoked fish and seal blubber, one of the rafts finally spotted land. Chieftain Harvos ordered the signal torches to be extinguished so that they could keep a low silhouette, though her Chieftain's second, a man she never bothered to learn the name of, argued that they should wait for their fellows. Harvos scoffed, declaring that he had committed the balance of his clan's warriors to this raid and that they were as united as they were going to get, before ordering everyone to make landfall. They sailed to the rightmost half of the island. Men and women stroked at their weapons impatiently, their troubles at home forgotten as they divined a possibility of 'nest feathering', as I termed the feeling that often preceded destruction of property, violent thievery, and rape. Albeit the girl saw this raid as a foolproof method of returning to her uncle's good graces, heedless to the fact that he neglected his end of the deal, particularly in his ultimate stipulation 'She shall have a home by my side', which he conveniently forgot.

The slipshod Free Folk armada approached the shore, and the girl grabbed her spear as she slipped into a battle trance, with mount and rider becoming one fighting being as their feet hit the sandy beach.

Win or lose, the girl would have satisfaction this day.

' _Right, I know how that venture went_ ' I mused as I terminated the replay and egressed from _Somnium_.

In the waking world, a negligible amount of time had elapsed. My dream delving could have lasted for a perceived number of weeks, and only minutes would have evaporated externally. It was an exploit that I happily took advantage of for my own ends repeatedly in the past. If anyone had been observing me (and they did not, I checked _thoroughly_ ), they would have seen me tap the girl's forehead, and that's it. Now that I knowledgeable about the girl's background, upbringing, and goals in life, we could have a chat that would determine the course of that life. But a foundation for that chat would have to be prepared first.

Like the Weirwood currently weeping in the Godswood, the girl had wet streaks on her cheeks from reliving those foul memories, and my heart twinged in sympathy for her. My hand reached into her outfit to divest her of her mother's dagger, housed in a sewn sealskin sheath. The blade, while of acceptable quality by local standards, had nicks, chips, and a dulling edge from recurring hard usage. The girl had been denied access to whetstones by order of her second Chieftain, showcasing how desperate he was to get her killed that he would resort to such pettiness. To make up for my well-intentioned transgressions rummaging about in her head, I transmuted atmospheric elements to replace the lost bits of the dagger and then transformed the restored edge into high-carbon steel, while keeping the core a flexible low-carbon steel that it was originally. A blade with both a durable cutting edge and a tough internal core was a valuable tool, especially for baseline folk. I also repaired the torn leather gripping on the wooden handle, because I did not half-ass things when I could help it.

I then laid down some temporary charms that made it exceedingly difficult for an affected person to act on aggressive urges. Pacification charms were the technical equivalent of a synaptic dampener, curbing tendencies or behaviors deemed undesirable. It's not mind control in the strictest sense, but it falls into a morally grey category for sure. Since these people's minds are virtually unprotected, these charms would be super effective _before_ I commenced modifying them, which I was wont to do. If I so wished it, I could do this to all of the inhabitants of Bear Island and supplant the 'Old Gods' as the ultimate symbol of indigenous authority. It would make life a lot easier for me, but I was not in the habit of social engineering where it was not required. Plus, easy street magic was a slippery slope that I disciplined myself against, and I wanted to leave an untraceable signature for now; hence why they were set to dissipate on command once I resolved my business with the girl whose name I still did not know out of politeness.

Gratified with these measures, I conjured a stool for me to sit on and broke the spell keeping her asleep before giving her brain a wakeup jolt. The teenaged girl's face knit its brow as she stirred from her period of snoozing. She stretched her arms to the sky and arched her spine like a feline as she gave a yawn that was surprisingly ladylike in its demure softness. She wiped at her brow with a forearm and blinked incoherently, intermittently exposing her pretty pale green eyes. Her abrupt and agonizing disconnection to her furry mount must have muddled the events of that morning, or I doubted she would be as relaxed as she was. I let her have a minute or so for her brain to finish rebooting out of courtesy.

"The gods are cruel, to hang the events of my life over me like that" She murmured under her breath, though I heard every word.

"T'is no accident" I initiated our dialogue, shaking her well and truly awake with my voice.

Her eyes widened, "W-wh" She shivered as the charms subtly influenced the rapid influx of certain chemicals in her brain, "Where am I?"

"You are in the Godswood of the Mormont Keep. The home of the High Chieftain of this land" I gestured to the Weirwood, "See that tree there? The people on this Island keep to the worship of the same nameless gods that you do, and that there is an essential component of it"

She gasped as she saw the leaky face of the Weirwood, instantly averting her eyes and bowing her head, "The gods see me! I am not worthy to be under their gaze! To hear their judgment!" She exclaimed in the Old Tongue.

Was this not the girl who termed the gods cruel seconds prior? Some people, I swear.

I shook my head, "I would concern myself with the judgment of the Lord of this island. It is his people that yours attacked, after all"

"They were not all my people" She corrected heatlessly, "I have been captured then" The girl realized, before she came to a greater realization, "And _Snowy_ is dead" She calmly stated.

"I am afraid so" I tentatively tendered. I did not have the heart to reveal that I was the one who slew her faithful companion of seven years.

"You speak the Old Tongue?" She seemed surprised by that.

"Indeed I do" I inclined my head to her, "Though I only recently learned it" I reported truthfully.

"Your accent is without flaw" She complimented hesitantly, "You sound like one of the men from my village, in fact"

"Well, for me, it is like German in that regard. If the person you are speaking to is not covered in your spit, then you are not doing it properly" I jested, pleased when it elicited a sad giggle from her.

There was a silence between us for a tense moment.

"I am going to die, am I not?" She emotionlessly posited.

I grinned, "All people eventually die, dear child. But first, you must live" I waxed philosophically, "And it just so happens that Lord Mormont has graciously permitted me to take you into my custody, overlooking your… earlier trespasses"

The flesh on her forehead creased in confusion, "Why would he do that? Why would you do that?"

"I have a soft spot for orphans" I told her, ' _And many other things besides, but that's not the point_ '

She frowned further, "How did you know that?"

"A special kind of intuition" I answered, "The kind that informed me that your parents have been gone for the better part of a decade, that your life had been saved by Bears thrice over, and that your adopted people are sanctimonious ingrates if they still do not acknowledge all of the service that you and _Snowy_ have performed for them"

She snorted bitterly, "I did not do all of it for them"

"For your Uncle, yes?" Her eyes snapped towards mine and narrowed, "The one who swore an oath that you would _have a home by his side_?"

She gaped and sputtered, "Who are you? To know these things?" She demanded.

"I am Zenith" I introduced myself sans the ceremony of titles that Nobility everywhere ate up like catnip, "And I know a multitude of things, and whatever I do not know, I can always bone up on for myself" I verbally downplayed my information gathering capabilities.

She began to tremor, "A-re… are you o-one of the g-gods?"

"Aren't your gods nameless?" I countered, "I mean… I _am_ flattered that you think such of me, but nothing about me is particularly divine" Even if there were those that begged to differ.

Her quivering lessened, "Then what are you?"

"I am like you, _human_ … only a lot more able" I summed up my Trifect status.

"I don't believe that" She whispered, her eyes meeting mine searchingly.

"What kind of god lies about their godliness?" I rhetorically posed to her, "Whether you believe me on that or not, you can be assured that you are my responsibility now"

She had no response for that, "What happens to me now?"

"A good question" I granted her, "In a few hours, Lord Mormont will be hosting a victory feast in his hall, a celebration that I would be remiss to skip out on. (' _No matter how badly I do not desire to go_ ')" I shifted on my stool, "Needless to say, you have not been invited to dine at his table, and are only barely tolerated within the confines of his Keep. You will wait here for the duration of that feast. Once it is concluded, I will fetch you and tote you off this island before you wear out your nonexistent welcome"

I leaned forward, "Where we go afterwards, however, is up to you" At her clueless expression I resumed, "It is within my power to return you to your fishing village by the coast, though I imagine that your Chieftain will not be thrilled by your decision to abandon your people"

"I did not abandon my people!" She raised her voice in a quiet shout, "I sought to prove myself of worth of them!"

"You have been doing that for the past seven years," I retorted languidly, "and you and I both know that is not how _he_ will interpret it"

She winced, unable to gainsay me on that account, "What other choice do I have?"

"You can come with me to the south" I proffered, "You can start your life afresh, away from the superstitious prejudices of your adopted people, and see a world beyond anything you have witnessed in your wildest dreams"

"There are kneelers to the south" She sniffed with disdain, as if that explained everything for her.

"I guarantee that you will never have to kneel to anything or anyone that you do not wish to kneel to, should you elect to accompany me south" I promised her with an amused tone.

"How can you guarantee something like that?" She was skeptical, "Are you not a man? Subject to the whims of the gods like the rest?"

I smiled enigmatically at her, "Stick with me, and perhaps you will find out for yourself"

She stared at the leaf strewn ground, lost in rumination for a quarter of an hour. I patiently waited for her verdict, not fully caring whichever way it went. I was a champion for Free Will, albeit mostly in the spirit of the concept, if not the letter.

Her gaze gradually centered on the sheath in my lap, "Will you give that back to me if I agree?"

"I will" I agreed readily, "On one condition," I added, dimming the hopeful light in those green orbs as I drew the blade, "that you will only use it in the defense of life, whether it is your own, or the lives of others" I flipped the dagger in the air and caught it by the flat between my fingers, before handing it to her, "Do you understand?"

This girl looked cute when she was flabbergasted.

"You are a strange man, Zenith" She finally concluded, taking the dagger and sheath, "But I understand" She made to cut at her palm before I stopped her, "You do not need to spill blood for this. That would be counterintuitive. Your word of honor is sufficient"

She scoffed, but obeyed, putting the dagger away, "Honor is a pretty word kneelers use to feel less bad about themselves for doing monstrous things"

"There is some truth to that" I conceded, "But it is also present in the actions born out of a state of mind. It is there when you are regretful for killing a child about your age during a raid, and that it was not how you envisioned obtaining justice for your parents' murders. It is there when you endure unjust beatings and do not call upon your familiar to punish those responsible" I listed as she flinched, "It was there when you came to this island in pursuit of a way to earn favor in the eyes of an uncle who should count himself blessed to have a wonderful niece such as you"

' _Oof! Straight in the abandonment issues_ ' I chastised myself when the girl's tear glands went into overdrive. I might have overdone it with the charms (in both meanings of the word), if she was this suggestible already.

"What do you want from me?" She hiccupped, lowering her face to fruitlessly avoid showing weakness.

"The same obligations that are expected of me" I figuratively went for the throat as my ribs 'ached' in protest, "To _learn_ , to _love_ , and to _live_ …" I paused for a moment, "Though I would not object to learning your name, either"

She chortled airily before clearing her runny nose, "Of all the things that you already know of me, how does my name elude you?"

I shrugged, "I figured it would be rude to deprive you of the right to personally share the name your parents blessed you with"

"Ylisse" She relented once she had recomposed herself, "My name is Ylisse"

"Ylisse" I sampled the name on my tongue like it was a fine vintage of cherry wine, "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ylisse" I elegantly nodded my head to her.

"Mainly yours, I'm sure" She dismissed my courtly antics, "So how does this arrangement work? Do you own me? Am I your property?"

I shook my head, "No, I don't own you, and I find the very idea of owning another human being repulsing. However, as I have said, you are my responsibility for the remainder of your stay on this island. Think of yourself as a guest, only one who has not been offered bread and salt, has already killed some of the local residents, and to top it all off, is a warg"

"Do you take issue with my kind?" She asked neutrally.

"I do not see why I should. After all…" A flurry of leaves of every color whirled and danced around her and only her, "…I have gifts of my own"

Her eyes went as wide as dinner plates, "Magic! But that means you are-"

' _May as well milk this for all that I can_ ' I mentally guffawed.

"Just your friendly neighborhood wizard man" I completed for her.

"But the stories always say that magic is a sword lacking a hilt! There is no safe way to wield it!" She protested fearfully.

"For those who lack the means of properly harnessing its power, mayhaps" I allowed, "For me, it's closer to an armory or a tool shed" And that was putting it lightly!

"For all of their wisdom, even the longest lived of elders cannot claim to know all that there is to know" I continued when she seemed unconvinced, "The Free Folk are correct to be wary of magic given that the principal methods for people accessing its power here are through blood and fire, but that is because those people are missing the capacity to channel it through their own body" Even their very soul, but that was a lecture for another occasion.

To demonstrate, I held out my palm and generated a simple pulsating orb of supernal light above it. The girl watched; entranced by what I believed to be parlor tricks that any mage worth their academy certification could replicate. I was glad for my foresight in setting up a sound and light baffle perimeter beforehand, because this would attract attention for sure. Hesitantly, as if it might burn her, the girl reached out to touch the glowing ball, gasping as her fingers phased through it like it was not there. It was simply a flashy construct. Low-Tier, Magnitude Two at best. It was one of the many channeling exercises that students of magic would repeat, ad infinitum, until they could do it in their sleep. It also functioned as a handy source of light in a jam.

"What wonders you must be capable of" She breathed in awe, "Are there limits?"

"Only those that you impose upon yourself" I dispersed the construct, which dissipated into tiny, dazzling streamers.

"Can you… teach me to use magic, as you do?" She requested suddenly, stars in her eyes as childish fantasies flared across them.

"What? Take you on as an apprentice?" I jested, and she nodded vigorously, "I shall consider it. Though before we get ahead of ourselves, can you do something for me?" She nodded again, "You see that owl with the white and grey speckled plumage hiding in that pine tree behind me? Try warging into it"

Was it a bit thoughtless of me to have her warging less than a day after I had killed her mount? Definitely. Was I doing it in the name of Thaumaturgical Science? Yes.

Twilight would be proud.

The thick-skinned girl, eager for a chance to learn magic, did not openly ponder how I knew that the owl was there sans looking at it and instead acquiesced, focusing on it as her eyes went milky white. Meanwhile, I was collecting all sorts of fascinating information thanks to a layer of passive observational spells. To put it frankly, the girl had nodules in her noggin that were not baseline standard. These nodes, when activated, situated her brain in some kind of wacky macroscopic quantum superposition of multiple states of the entire brain, while the corresponding cerebellums were kept in some sort of forced entanglement. It allowed for thought and sensory streams to be split, but for the overall consciousness to be unified. Essentially, a warg that was warging was duplicating, trimming and or enlarging their neural pathways, then projecting it to take control of the animal, or several animals with sufficient skill. That the nodes could harmonize completely recalcitrant biological systems was damn impressive. That milky film over their eyes was an adaptation to reduce visual sensory input while warging. It was sloppily executed in my opinion though, as her main body and brain were virtually immobilized to allow for maximum emphasis of the 'animal mind'. She had a ways to go before she had her own circus menagerie.

Not to mention that I recalled that there was a feedback between warg and animal. The person receives some animal nuances, while the animal received some person nuances. _Snowy_ must have been well behaved for a polar bear, because the girl conducted herself normally to me. She had fought well atop her polar bear mount, but she had practiced on that one for years to retain that degree of motor control. When stimulated on the regular, the nodes grew until they were the diameter of a dime, and not all of them were used at once from what I could tell. Like any muscle, it would require constant work to improve upon its capabilities. Ylisse was visibly struggling, as the wild, frantic flapping of wings to my six could attest to. She grit her teeth and came down on that owl with all that she had. There was a shrill squawk as the animal's will was made subservient to hers and the warged owl glided from its branch and onto my shoulder. The girl grinned and squinted playfully as she made the snowy owl defecate on my robes.

Jokes on her. My robes are stain proofed, as evidenced by the visibly disappearing owl crap.

"Now that's just rude" I remarked with faked annoyance as I flicked her on the forehead, dispelling her control over the owl. The bamboozled, stunning creature was about to bolt when I mollified it with a spell and a few tricks that Fluttershy had taught me. A bribe of 'pocketed' lemming usually helped.

"How did you do that?" Ylisse questioned, espying the placated owl happily gulp an unfortunate, sacrificial lemming, "Are you a warg too?"

I smirked, "No. Animal Whisperer. Just as good, and not as invasive"

Ylisse pouted at that, "Can I learn some magic now?"

I stroked at the feathers of the owl, "All in due time, Ylisse. There are things that must be done before I endeavor to instruct you in the ways of magic, the most pressing of which is that victory celebration that Lord Mormont practically insisted that I join"

"But you do promise to teach me?" She fished for an assurance.

I sighed, before extracting a plain silver ring crowned with an Asscher cut ruby the size of a ladybug, "Alright. This is a traditional Cervidian Apprenticeship ring" I tossed it to her, and she caught it deftly, "Try putting it on"

She tried, but when the ring got within a centimeter of her index finger, it repelled like two magnets of the same pole, only stronger. Perplexed, she tried harder, only for the ring to still defy her efforts.

She looked dismayed, "Why can I not fit it on? Am I unworthy of being an apprentice?"

"No, young Ylisse" I reassured her, "You cannot wear it because you have not taken the vows of an apprentice yet"

"Vows?" She scowled.

"It would not be very responsible of me to teach you magic and not establish boundaries for you to operate in, now would it?" I rhetorically posed, "The vows are elementary and as follows: I do solemnly and sincerely pledge on my life, my light, and my magic to treat the Fundamental Arcane Forces with the utmost of respect and due diligence, to obey my instructor lest I walk astray of the path set before me, and to never maliciously abuse this incredibly sacred privilege on pain of permanent severance from the bonds of fellowship and freedom" There was a pertinent reason that rogue Cervidian mages were practically unheard of, and it was because they were not frivolous in hammering it into their adepts that magic was not a toy to be played with on a whim.

Ylisse swore the vows before the Heart Tree with the same reverence that one Jon Snow would aver before another Weirwood when he was inducted into the lackluster ranks of the once proud and noble Night's Watch. It was a sobering thought for me that I probably butterflied him out of existence. Once the girl had spoken the words, the ruby on the band pulsed thrice in acceptance and the otherwise ordinary appearing, votive ring slid on without a fuss. The teenager was giddy with excitement and bouncing on her feet as she formally became my apprentice. I was not the best of teachers, and I had only ever shared my sundry tidbits of expertise in academy lecture halls before a starry-eyed audience that were often too starstruck by Arcania's 'Peerless Prince' to take notes, so this would prove to be a novel experience for the two of us. It came with some notable perks as well, as Ylisse would indubitably discover for herself.

"Ooh I cannot wait to start!" She squealed, my charms having utterly eroded her internal reservations about the abrupt twists her life had taken.

"You won't have to" I uttered, "I expect you to practice straightaway"

I bestowed to her a transparent glass orb. Inside the orb was a circular maze that went from top to bottom in three rows. At the nadir of the orb was a black sphere the size of a bead of sand that was totally stationary. If you tipped the orb upside-down or vibrated it in hand, that bead would remain rooted in place. Only magic could convince that bead to become mobile. The purpose of the orb was twofold, to teach the student patience, and to hone their fine thaumaturgical telekinetic control. I explained this to the girl that she was to spend the evening 'convincing' that bead to climb to the northern hemisphere of the orb. The apprentice ring on her finger was to be both training wheels and conduit for increments of magic that her body was deficient for, save for those fascinating nodes on her brain. Only one part in ten would be her own inherent pool of mana that was naturally integrated into her body from the leylines. No bloodletting required there, no sir. It was my goal to increase her body's output of mana before I proceeded into phase two of my Grand Master Plan… of turning her into a mage.

"How do I move the bead?" She queried when her initial unaided attempts were met with failure.

"Firstly, you have to center yourself" I advised, "Never mind the orb for now. Clear your mind of any distractions as well as you can. You understand?" I waited for her verbal confirmation, " _Focus_. Breathe deeply in through your mouth and exhale through your nostrils. Listen to the world around you, the rustling of the branches in the breeze, the crawling of insects on the soil and on the roots, and the rushing of lifeblood in your veins. Discern a steady thrumming at the edge of your hearing. Heed your own heartbeat, and match it to heartbeat of the Earth. You are a part of it… and it is a part of you. You are subject to its ebbs and flows, and likewise, it is subject to yours. Push out with the wholeness of your being once you are ready to take that step into the ineffable unknown"

Once she had achieved that vital fugue state, instinct took over. She exhaled and all loose materials: leaves, rocks, and twigs quaked. She shivered as though she had been hurled into ice water as she felt the leylines respond to her actions. There was always something especially profound about facilitating someone's inner awakening. I have been informed by reliable sources that it is one of the few facets that made the arduous and emotionally exhausting process merit the cost. Magic was a blessing to be carefully distributed, not jealously hoarded like a Gryphondrian robber baron and his ill gotten gold.

"That was amazing!" Ylisse exclaimed breathlessly, "I could swear to all the gods that I was _one with_ _ **everything**_ for a brief instant"

"It's different for everyone" I articulated conversationally, "But all of those people can agree that there is not a thing like it"

"How can my people have been blind to this for all these eons?" She was rife with disbelief, "How could _anyone_ have been so blind!?"

"They have shut themselves to the immaterial, and associate anything resembling it with negativity, suspicion, and fear" In other words, they have buried their heads into the sand, "It is their loss, really…"

"I wish I could communicate this knowledge to them, but I know they would not believe me" She lamented, "Eh… they never liked me anyway, so fuck 'em"

Her brusqueness elicited a rare laugh out of me, "That's the spirit! Now the key to moving the bead is to put yourself in that state of tranquil being yet again. This time, when you push out, do so in a manner that is concentrated on that bead"

She complied, managing to shift it a millimeter on her first go. She had potential, that I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt. Her minor accomplishment merely propelled her to strive further, perpetuating itself in a positive feedback loop, her scrunched face of concentration marred only by a childlike smile. I could tell that it was going to be a pleasure to train this one.

"Keep at it. This is for when you get hungry or thirsty later" I presented her with a red honeycrisp apple as I transferred the recently tamed owl to her shoulders to keep her company.

"Only an apple?" She whined as she simultaneously exerted herself with the orb, "That won't be very filling"

"That is a bonafide product of Sweet Apple Acres. It will be like nothing you have ever had in your life" I chuckled, my heart aching as memories of blonde hair swirling in the breeze, a jovial country demeanor, and the sweat of a hard day's labor flashed in my mind, "Now you stay here and work on that exercise. Do not forget to grant yourself time to rest when you feel an invisible pressure begin to build in your psyche. If you manage to get that bead to the middle level by the time I come to fetch you, there will be a prize" I affirmed in parting as I eased off the charms now that I had her convinced and firmly onboard.

As a precaution, I warded the purlieu of the Godswood to _discourage_ anyone seeking to pray or otherwise be there. A person desiring to confess all of their sins to the Heart Tree would make contact with the tree line, undergo a rapid change of heart, and put any ideas of entering the Godswood as far from their plans as they could.

Engrom was awaiting me by the marvelously carved gates, as he said he would. Lord Mormont was admirably busying himself in the village speaking with the families of the deceased, maybe even inviting them to his hall to memorialize and honor their sacrifice if he preferred to go the extra mile. With his Lord occupied, he graciously gave me a tour of the Mormont's demesne. Servants of the Mormont Household were already toiling to prepare the foodstuffs stocked in the larders for the feast to be held at the hour of the Fox, which was close to midnight. Deer was roasted on spits as freshly caught fish from the bay were scaled, had their innards removed, and were then roasted over open flames. Great clay cauldrons of stew bubbled and frothed as their minders chopped and diced a variety of vegetables painstakingly grown on what scarce arable soil there was on the island. Innumerable kegs of ale were tapped and tankards were topped to the foamy brim. Guards lit additional, rudimentary torches that were essentially sticks with pinecones drizzled in pine resin, set alight, and socketed them in sconces along the palisade wall as they patrolled the perimeter, professionally alert in their vigil.

The people of this island may have lacked the wealth, but they did not lack the Will to make the most of what they had available.

"Inclined for a bout, milord?" Engrom inquired of me, when he espied me watching men sparring with each other in the yard.

"If you do not resent suffering a few bruises, I'm game" I replied, which made him chortle good-naturedly.

It was a makeshift training ground, with wooden dummies covered in stuffed straw to simulate flesh for men to strike at if they were warriors or feather with arrows if they were archers. The dueling square was fenced off into four corners with pylons of tree boughs, and the muddy earth was trampled and compacted from the repeated stamping of feet. Four men were currently engaging their respective opponents in it, dancing around the other and trading blows with purposefully blunted weapons of iron. By the look of it, it was a tag team battle. The weapons being used were hand axes, arming swords, and round wooden shields with strips of iron banding them. They all fought well, until a man made a misstep and got shield bashed into the mud with a follow-up axe to his neck signaling his 'death'. With his partner out, the last man was pressed on two fronts, bravely managing to take an opponent with him for the cost of a bloody nose. The losers genially congratulated the winners as japes and laughs were had in the spirit of northern camaraderie.

We chose our weapons once the four men had vacated the dueling square. Engrom stuck with an arming sword like the one sheathed at his waist, while I went with a blocky hammer that weighed less than it normally would have if it were a legitimate weapon. Engrom blinked at my unconventional choice of armament while we stood to opposite positions in the square. We then studied each other for a minute. Engrom kept his posture combat ready and flexible to go at a moment's notice, while I betrayed nothing with my deceptively lazy stance. I retained no fallacies that he witnessed me make mincemeat out of the wildling raiders that morning, and was wisely wary of me.

"Let us make this match interesting" I proposed a wager, "If I win, you will call me by name only"

He snorted, "And if I should win?"

I shrugged carefreely, "Then you can call me _milord_ to your heart's content"

He smirked, but otherwise did not deign to initiate a rejoinder to that. Instead he bulled ahead with a jab to my midsection, which I batted aside with the haft of the hammer. He poked and prodded at my defenses and was rebuffed every time. Meanwhile I had yet to move from my location, acting like an unmovable monolith to his aggressive surges. He jabbed and feinted with the expertise of a veteran of thirty years, while I remained unmoved by his gestures. His frustration had started to express itself as a crowd slowly formed by the sidelines, cheering for Engrom and urging him to show me what a man of Bear Island was made of. He caved, increasing the speed of his assault, moving at a speed that ordinary, trained men would be hard-pressed to match. He would thrust and slash, aiming low, middle, and high in a pattern that did not reprise itself; circling about me in a fervent search of a weak point. I continued to deflect, parry, and halt his attacks without going into a counter offensive. I wanted to savor this, after all.

We kept at this song and dance for seven minutes; with each subsequent minute causing the jaws of the onlookers to drop lower as I all but publicly humiliated their future Captain of the Guard while only pivoting in place and fighting defensively. If there were savvy observers in the crowd, they would see that I was utilizing a modified version of Form III Soresu, also aptly known as the Resilience Form. My strategy here was to let my opponent crash against my defense and disperse his strength like ocean waves on a cliff, a strategy that paid in dividends for the patient and swift. Engrom's desperation grew and reached fever pitch as he attempted to forgo conventional tactics and tackle me… only for me to finally sidestep, outstretch a leg, and gently slam the hammer down on his spine as he passed. Unable to keep his footing and overcommitting to his Hail Mary of a gambit, he collapsed into the mud and slid to a stop. It was dead silent in the yard as I reveled in the opportunity to rehearse my Form III on Über-casual mode.

I walked over to him as he flipped himself onto his posterior, staring at me like I was inhuman as I towered above him. He flinched at my sudden movement, before comprehending that I was offering him a friendly hand up.

"By the Gods" Engrom wheezed, wiping a bit of mud clinging to his awesome mustache as he accepted the hand that pulled him onto his feet, "Did that even sap you of stamina, mil-… Zenith?" He remembered the conditions of the wager and honored it, to my satisfaction.

"That was warm-up practice for me" I favored him with a shark's grin, "Want to go another round?"

He visibly paled at the idea, red-faced from exertion and still catching his breath, "Mayhaps another evening. Pardon me, Zenith, but I ought to oversee the preparations for the feast" He excused himself from the yard with evident haste, salvaging what little self-esteem he had left to his person. There were sniggers and hoots among the crowd as they beheld him in retreat.

I directed my attention to that jeering crowd of men and women, "Anyone else fancy a go?"

I was pleased to note that at least one person in ten took me up on the challenge.

⁂

Men and women gradually filtered in from the village as the hour of the Fox inched nearer, some families of the deceased had chosen to attend the feast, while others had declined the invitation as respectfully as could be expected of them. By then, I had exhausted the number of willing opponents to spar with and was thoroughly bored. To add some variety to the sparring matches, I had them come at me in multiple numbers versus myself, not that it made that much of a difference in the end as I doled out bruises to both body, pride, and ego like candy corn on Halloween. I was as mobile and intense as a whirlwind in the ring, and just as untouchable as I sowed vexation and exasperation among my opponents. I had to credit these warriors though; the ones that had lingered were persistent to scratch out a win for pride's sake. When it was all well and done, I was yet regarded with fear, but now there was healthier smattering of respect and flatteringly… if not somewhat worryingly, poorly disguised lust from the single warrior women.

Lord Mormont had returned by then, and was directing the placement of dining tables, utensils, and the all important seating arrangement of guests, coordinating with his staff with a degree of familiarity that suggested that the Mormont Household was a close-knit unit, to absolutely no surprise on my part. To my chagrin, he had saved me a spot by his side as a guest of honor and would not be convinced otherwise. Thankfully, he had officially okayed me keeping my ward ensconced in the Godswood, though he was quietly skeptical of my claims that she would cause no trouble now that she was awake and posted guards at the Godswood to concurrently keep an eye on her and warn off potentially vengeful Bear Islanders if any went hunting for her. Moreover, as soon as the 'Wildling Waif' was off the island, it was no longer his issue to deal with. He had suggested that I ought to spare myself the trouble and shorten her by a head, but I would likewise not hear it. We made to acknowledge the other's rigid stubbornness and let the matter dissolve.

The servants had exploited the space available on the trestle tables to maximum effect, occupying their surfaces with platters of brown barley breads served with thin cuts of smoked venison, trenchers of smoked fish, cod cakes, root vegetable soups, oat breads, buttered neep stews of goat or fish, and Pease Porridge that was closer to humus than porridge in consistency. Horns and wooden tankards of ale (and regrettably no cups of water or tea) lined the tabletops. The fare smelled delicious, in spite of its Northern blandness, and the scent of food permeated the longhouse alongside the smokiness of the hearth that was kept constantly fed and stoked to fend off the chill. The Sigil of the Mormonts could be found everywhere. It was carved into the support columns, sculpted over the mantelpiece, or embossed onto the flatware. The Mormont's symbol might not have been widely known outside of their island, but here in their home, the hirsute nobles were not afraid to flaunt it to any of their guests. It was a thematic device that I likely had to get used to when visiting a Noble's residence.

Lord Mormont had wisely planned the organization of seats. Warriors that had fought that morning were at the end of the hall, within hearing range for their Lord's powerful lungs, whereas the families of those who had lost a member in battle were in the middle, afforded accolades for their sacrifice. At the head of the rows the household guard that accompanied their Lord was seated adjacent with his family, and myself, as a valued guest of honor. Outside I was pleasantries and inane banalities of gratitude, but inwardly I was disguising a fidgety mood. I yearned to be on the move while the going was prime. A catastrophe had occurred in the south, and I knew in my marrow that I needed to rectify it while there was still something to be rectified. Destiny had declared that the Aegon Targaryen of this world's back-lore would not be the one to mostly forge Westeros into one Kingdom with Dragonfire. But nor could it be forsaken to languish in its self destructive warlike habits. The Game of Survival took precedence over the Game of Thrones.

And so there I was, patiently spooning at Pease Porridge while politely partaking of my full-bodied tasting horn of ale so as to not spurn my host's hospitality, though it did not prevent me from declining rather forceful advances for refills by the winking serving wenches. The heterogeneous sounds of talking, carousing, loud laughter, and general merrymaking buzzed throughout the Mormont's Hall like an oversized tavern. Men recounted tales of battle and bravery, bedding women, and other noteworthy feats while the women either copied the raucous behavior, or, in the case of the younger or unblooded gals, gossiped and pointed in my direction when they thought me unaware. The Household Guardsmen and women attempted to engage me in conversation, and while I indulged them, my everlasting unwillingness to be a social butterfly seemed to have warned the majority of them off. The exception to this was the youthful Joran, who needled me with an unending deluge of questions about my home, as the youthful were wont to do. While I reacted to his inquiries as seriously as I could, it did not escape me that Lord Jorgan paid especial attention to my responses. He was a wily one, this Jorgan Mormont, sending his own son to sniff out information that I would normally be tightlipped with. To me it was proof that anybody who adjudged these Northmen incapable of low cunning was a fool.

' _Good luck finding Arcania on a local map, pal_ ' I mentally eye-rolled and wished the man the best when he mouthed the designation of my homeland.

As it turned out, Jorgan and Joran were not the only Mormonts in the Hall. They had cousins living with them in the form of the squat, chunky Jocey Mormont, the rail thin Jinna Mormont, the vaguely alluring Jadith Mormont, and their stout, matronly mother; the greying Joranna Mormont. While others in my position might have had indigestion from the naming conventions, the alliteration reminded me of home… and all of its endearing wackiness. The sum totality of the Mormont women were clad in furs and boiled leather, and I had no doubts that they were trained to split a man's skull in twain if the situation demanded it. They were not ladylike in their conduct, belching impressively after an extensive quaff of alcohol or pounding the table with their fists as they relayed a ribald jest. If I did not know better, I would say that they were trying to get a rise out of the 'Southron' with their antics. The joke was on them, since Rainbow could thrash them _any day_ in a contest of unadulterated uncouthness, and I was well accustomed to her unrepentant coarseness.

I empathetically and regularly checked in on Ylisse through my vicarious connection to her via the apprenticeship ring, content with her slow but steady progress in impelling the bead towards the middle level of the training orb. If this feast endured into the early morning hours, as I suspected it would, she might even make it. Of course, the 'prize' that I had in mind was another teaching aid for her to master until the motions came to her automatically. She would receive it regardless of the results of her practicing. Yeah, I was one of _those_ instructors, but it had proven effective in motivating students who had an unquenchable thirst for magic in the past, and so I would stick to what worked. Though I would have to invent some regimen for Ylisse that transcended mere training exercises and rote thaumaturgical gymnastics. I made a note to myself to get on that later as Lord Mormont rose from his seat at the head of the main table and bellowed for a moment of silence that was quickly heeded by his armed houseguests (In case of pesky Ironborn).

"Men and women of Bear Island, I hope the lot of you have not found my hospitality wanting!" He hiccupped as he lifted his cup in a toast, and was answered with positive roars of fulfillment. The man had three horns of ale by now, and was on his fourth, so he was decently soused, "We are gathered here to celebrate the honored dead, those who gave their lives so that others could live! May their memory live on through their kinsmen!"

There were shouts and thumping feet in the hall as agreement was had, the noisiest coming from the middle, where the families of the deceased commiserated with drink in hand.

"But _Here We Stand_!" He recited his family creed, "As our ancestors have stood before us, and as our descendants shall stand after us!" There was a cacophony of consonance as heads nodded all around.

"But even the doughtiest of warriors cannot stand forever on their own!" Mormont continued his speech, "We stand stronger when we stand together! Many of you know this, as I do, but today it was substantiated in a way none of us could predict…"

' _Oh… boy, I am not one for having speeches foisted on me right now_ ' I groused moodily.

Lord Mormont, ignorant of my misgivings with speeches, bulled on, "… were it not for a man whose skill in arms is without peer, as many of you here have personally seen for yourself, our grief would have been all the greater, and indeed… even I would be among those mourned by the living; were it not for this man, Zenith…" He gestured to me, smirking as he perceived my displeasure, "… is a _champion_ of House Mormont!"

I grumbled a few choice words that were thankfully lost in the din of a convivial longhouse packed with uproarious Northmen as I stood erect from the bench. All eyes were upon me as my gaze swept to the ends of the Hall, and not an unfriendly face was among them. Their expressions ranged from enlivened, to delighted, to exhilarated. Mormont's hackneyed speech had them all convinced that I was the Hero for them to aspire to, however temporarily so. I hadn't the heart to tell them to seek elsewhere for their flawless example of valor and virtue. I merely utilized the abilities I had been given to protect those that I cared about, and when acting on my principles, as jaded and forlorn as they were.

I bore with it, "Men and women of Bear Island. I did not come to be on this land by deliberation, in fact my arrival here was brought on by the fickle winds of fate. When I happened by that fishing village by the sea, I saw that the people living here were being attacked. This man, this bold leader of men," I nodded to Lord Mormont, "faced down an enemy that outnumbered him and his two to one and was as ferocious and untamed as the lands they hailed from… and he did not yield an inch of ground!"

Cue the whistles and rumble of feet, "The battle was fierce, and your foes fought savagely. But the men and women that were defending the beaches vehemently refused to give into despair, refused to break to the swords and spears of the stinking horde! They knew that they were the only obstacle standing between the enemy… and everything that they cared about, everything that they cherished. How can a fellow warrior witness such zeal and not be moved to action?" I laid a hand on my heart, "You honor me with these accolades, men and women of Bear Island… but I am not the true champion of House Mormont… it is _you_ … each and every single one of you… that are the champions" I raised my horn of ale (which had mysteriously refilled itself), "So drink up, Champions! Drink deep of the cup of life!" And with that I chugged the horn of ale dry.

The Hall erupted into cheers that were downright explosive as practically everybody imitated my actions, guzzling their refreshments and slamming the cups onto the surfaces on the tables as they chanted my name. Lord Mormont himself was impressed, and he applauded me with an approving glint to his eyes. The cousin Mormonts joined the other warrior maidens in 'visually undressing me' pastimes, and young Joran beamed at me in a way that suggested that my listing was bumped up on his roster of role models. The night's festivities progressed as tables were redistributed and space was tidied for people to caper and cavort. Unsurprisingly, these Northmen preferred folksy music with a lively beat to dance a jig to. The instruments were cringey in their build quality though, consisting of crudely made two stringed pieces accompanied by flutes and a percussion box similar to a cajón, except that one did not sit on it to play and it was tapped with a drumstick. The resulting music was… _traditional_ sounding, to put it lightly. It took a significant amount of effort not to let my discomfort manifest on my face.

Inspiration struck me then, and I politely requested for Lord Mormont to interrupt the revelry while I ambled out of sight to ostensibly 'fetch' my instrument. I returned with an invaluable guitar in my arms that had been a gift from one of my musically inclined wives, my precious Octavia. Seeing that their guest of honor was going to serenade them, the houseguests happily obliged me as I sat myself on an elevated position on a tabletop so that all could see and hear me. I picked at the strings and tuned them by ear as my audience whispered amongst themselves about how they had never seen an instrument like mine before. I smirked, if they were intrigued by its looks, they were going to _love_ how it sounded. Even the Mormonts were avid spectators. The cousins in particular were especially interested in the warrior-bard. Once everything had checked out, my fingers started to pluck at the strings in the same pattern before I strummed and my audience leaned inwards as I began to sing.

(Theme Music: Scotland For Ever by John McDermott)

"Let Free Cities boast of their gay gilded waters,

Their vines and their bowers and their soft, sunny skies,

Their sons drinking love from the eyes of their daughters,

Where freedom expires amid softness and sighs,"

My strumming intensified as I launched into the song's chorus.

"Northern blue mountains wild where hoary cliffs are piled,

Towering in grandeur are dearer tae me,

Land of the misty cloud,

Land of the tempest loud,

Land of the Brave and Proud,

Land of the Free,"

I switched back and forth from strumming to finger plucking with ease.

"Enthroned on the peak of her own highland mountains,

The spirits of Old Gods reign fearless and free,

Her grey direwolf bounding oe'r white ice and field,

And proudly she sings looking over the sea,"

People clapped along to the chorus.

"Here among my mountains wild, I have serenely smiled,

When armies and empires, against me were hurled,

Firm as my native rock, I have withstood the shock,

Of Southron, of Ironborn, of Andal, and the world,"

I winked at the starstruck ladies present in the crowd, because I was a shameless tease.

"But see how proudly her war steeds are prancing,

Deep groves of steel trodden down in their path,

The eyes of their sons like their bright swords are glancing,

Triumphantly riding through ruin and death,"

And one final repeating chorus.

"Bold hearts and nodding plumes wave o'er their bloody tombs,

Deepeyed in gore is the direwolf's wave,

Shivering are the ranks of steel, dire is the horseman's wheel,

Victorious in battlefield, Northmen the Brave,

Bold hearts and nodding plumes wave o'er their bloody tombs,

Deepeyed in gore is the direwolf's wave,

Shivering are the ranks of steel, dire is the horseman's wheel,

Victorious in battlefield, Northmen the Brave,

Victorious in battlefiIEEELD! Northmen the BraAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAve!"

With the conclusion of the song came the most thunderous ovations yet. I bobbed my head to them in an imitation of a bow before I grinned and kicked off into my acoustic version of _Life in a Northern Town by The Dream Academy_ , which was a great song for drunken sing-alongs.

Good times were had all around.

⁂

It was the hour of the Wolf by the time a swaying Lord Mormont ordered people to go home and sleep off their hangovers. I had used the distraction of people clearing out to 'pocket' my guitar and beat a retreat to the Godswood before anyone got wise, dismissing the wards and dispersing residual magic as was prudent. Was it inconsiderate of me to leave sans saying goodbye? Yes. But I did not feel like explaining to Lord Mormont once he had sobered up where I had gotten my guitar from when I did not have it on my person when he met me. Ylisse, bless her heart, was struggling with physical and metaphysical fatigue as she was scant millimeters away from achieving the goal that I had set for her. Shaking my head, I hit her with a snoozer, which was what I informally titled my knockout spells. I then levitated an ordinary pebble to face height and inscribed upon it a series of runic patterns that would transform it into a telestone, which acted as beacons (and then some) for mages to latch onto when they teleported. To put it in video game terms, I had turned the Mormont's Godswood into a fast travel point for me to bounce to whenever I wished it and spare me the hassle of divining a spot myself.

With my _wizard eyes_ , I examined the leyline network outline of the world and harnessed the details it provided me as a map that would put comprehensive satellite imagery to shame. With tweaks and adjustments here and there, I could highlight living beings such as humans and discern where they were concentrated. Thirty million results may have seemed like an overwhelming number, but I was very much capable of processing it minus any difficulties. If I believed that I had the time to burn, I could even refine the results to locate a person based on traits that I inputted into a search, like a police cruiser's database. But there was a way to obtain the data that I desired and not waste time. I 'zoomed in' on the Blackwater Bay purlieu and scanned for draconic lifeforms that fit the information that I recalled of Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar. Shockingly, it churned up three results, although the third was iffy, based on its weakening signature. The first was on Dragonstone, the second one was nearby the mouth of the Blackwater River, and the flickering indicator of the third was on the coast, north of what would have been the Crownlands Kingswood under the Targaryens, unless that forest was always called that.

If the third dragon was clinging to life, did that mean its rider did as well?

All the more reason for me to investigate. Those dragons and their riders were pivotal to the formation of Westeros as an integrated polity. Plus, the condition of the world's leyline network was bad enough without removing one of the creatures keeping it active from the equation. Gathering up my apprentice and our owl friend, I channeled my immense magic and we both promptly vanished from the Godswood as if we were never there, save for a paper note adhered to the 'forehead' of the Heart Tree apologizing to the Mormonts for my abrupt departure in a manner that was behooving for a Prince of Arcania. That is to say, it was short, sweet, and succinct.

I had an objective, and woe betide anything that got in my way.


End file.
